


Another Month

by weneedtotalkaboutsherlock (Paradoxe1914)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Banter, Based on prompts, Bathtubs, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Blow Jobs, Bubble Bath, Christmas, Christmas Carols, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Christmas Presents, Comforting Each Other, Dancing, December Challenge, Decorating, Dog - Freeform, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Drunken Shenanigans, Elf, Engagement, Established Relationship, Fluff, Frottage, Full of Tropes, Hangover, Interconnected FIclets, Kissing, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mistletoe, Self-Doubt, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Skype, Smut, Sussex, bad memories, stuck at home
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-09 04:05:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 27,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12879819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paradoxe1914/pseuds/weneedtotalkaboutsherlock
Summary: December may be the time of peppermint, mistletoe, family reunions, gifts and Christmas trees, but for John and Sherlock, it is only another month. Or is it really?





	1. Peppermint

**Author's Note:**

> So here is my take on the Sherlock December Ficlets challenge! It's the first time I start something like that, so we will see how it goes. I will write ficlets for each day, but I might be late for some days as I have exams for the next two weeks. 
> 
> Each ficlet, based on a prompt you can see in the title, marks a day in the month of December and so, marks a day in John and Sherlock's life, as they are already in an established relationship. I am a huge fan of everything that is domestic/established, so you can be prepared for all the fluff, but also humor, cases and many adventures.
> 
> The ficlets are interconnected, they (try) to follow a story, but if you just want to pick one of them at random you should be able to understand the ficlet on it's own (that may change, I'll see how it goes haha).   
> For this moment the fic is not rated, since the first few ficlets are T, but the rating may change... I will also update the tags as we move on during the month. 
> 
> Enjoy, and happy holidays!

" _Sherlock Holmes_ , are you doing what I think you're doing?"

John has just finished climbing up the stairs leading to 221b two-by-two, still shuddering from the cold. He had gone for a pint with Greg, since their had not been an interesting case in sight for a week now, to Sherlock's dismay. He had come back home early: work had called and Greg had to leave for a crime scene, and John secretly wished that he would be baffled enough to ask for their help. Sherlock is insufferable when not solving anything in a while, which often leads him to going back to unwanted behaviors.

That's why, when John arrives in 221b's living room, seeing Sherlock turning his back on him while facing the open window is particularly not a good thing.

Sherlock turns on himself, hands on the window's stool, dissimulating whatever he is hiding under the curtains with his back. " _No!_ " he answers quickly. "You came back earlier than you were supposed to." His tone is accusatory. John sighs, knowing that Sherlock is starting to make a deduction.

"Is it good news? Oh, it _is_! On a seventy-three minutes average pub meeting, adding two times fifteen minutes for transport, you came back forty-seven minutes earlier than usual. Obviously Lestrade cut the encounter short. It could have been trouble with the kids, but then again, you were impatient to get home." John quirks an eyebrow, and Sherlock continues. "Yes, impatient. Usually when you come back from the pub you stop at Tesco since it's on the way, and lately the level of cartoned milk in our fridge is dangerously low. Since you did not bother buying some more, I can only assume that you came back as quickly as possible to share the good news. Now, I am asking you at once: is it _murder_?"

Sherlock grins on the last word, still half-sitting in front of the window. John shakes his head. He is certainly not letting himself be distracted by this deduction, however accurate it was.

"Brilliant," John says, a bit flatly. "Now come here and kiss me."

Sherlock smiles but shakes his head from left to right: no. He looks down and a bit to the left, and it's barely perceptible but John knows it means that he is hiding something. His theory, at this point, is most certainly correct, but as the detective would say, he needs to prove it.

"Really? You don't want to kiss me hello?"

"It's just that I… have not washed my teeth."

The lie is obvious. Does he _wants_ to get caught? John reflects. "It's past seven o'clock, Sherlock, you've washed your teeth this morning like you always do."

"Is it?"

"It is. I'm beginning to wonder if you simply don't want to kiss me," John says, although his tone is mostly playful.

Sherlock pouts. "That's ridiculous."

"All right, then."

John strides across the living room, and if Sherlock recoils even more against the window, John does not let him more any further: he puts his hands on Sherlock's hips and reaches for a kiss that he melts into. John can feel Sherlock kissing back, a bit against his will, but he does. Ah, there it is, behind the strong taste of tea, the damming evidence that make's John little own deduction come true: _peppermint_.

While Sherlock is visibly occupied by John's insisting tongue, John slowly trails his hands on Sherlock's hips to reach behind his back: his hands grip on the wooden stool that also conveniently serves as a secret stash (and Sherlock does not know that he is aware of it for months, by now).

When John's fingers retrieves the carton box, he ends the kiss abruptly. "Aha! You're in big trouble, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock looks mortified, hands holding John's arm. "John, I can explain!"

"No. It's my time to make a deduction," he says, still holding Sherlock with one arm. "See, when you heard that I would be going out to the pub with Greg—"

"— Who?"

"Lestrade, you git. When you knew I was going out, you waited the appropriate amount of time to know that I would not come back and catch you in the act. Maybe you even fought against it, before deciding that you were definitely too bored with the lack of cases, that you had to do something about it. And all this time, it was sitting right under your nose, wasn't it?"

Sherlock shakes his head and tries to go for another kiss, before John blocks him. Instead, he puts his forehead on John's, doing his best impression of puppy-eyes. John is nearly convinced to let the whole thing go, but this time, he really can't.

"You know how I hate that, Sherlock. Each December, it's the same. As soon as they're out in the stores, you make me buy some, before hiding the box away as if I have _forgotten_ that I bought them in the first place. You have absolutely no self control! One day you'll eat too much and you'll get sick."

"Never," Sherlock whispers back with determination.

John sighs, pulling the box of After Eights from behind Sherlock's back, before he is attacked again by a storm of soft kisses.

"Will you share, at least?"

"But of course!" Sherlock tugs on John's sleeve, biting his lower lip. "As we do, tell me _exactly_ what Lestrade said on the phone when the Yard called him."


	2. Wish List

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mummy calls and shows John an old wish list of Sherlock's.

When his phone rings, Sherlock barely hears it. Deep in his mind palace, is he only disturbed when John moves at the other end of the sofa, slipping from under Sherlock's legs and putting the book he had been reading aside.

"So I should just pick it up?" he asks sarcastically.

Sherlock does not bother to answer, since the question is a rhetorical one: John is answering the phone as he says so.

"Oh, hi Violet." Sherlock sighs: his mom. Right. Since it should take approximately two and a half hours for this conversation to end, he is better to get back in his mind palace. After all, he has a case to solve.

Greg had called them in the morning, just as Sherlock predicted he would, when John came back earlier yesterday from his usual meeting at the pub, discovering Sherlock's secret stash by the same occasion. He puts his hands under his chin. He will have to find another place to hide the After Eights, now. Maybe behind Mrs Hudson's washing machine? Or he could ask her directly, but then, she would most likely betray him to John, or worse, dig in the chocolates herself. Then again, Sherlock could go out and buy some for himself, but that meant putting on his coat, leaving the flat and actually walking down to the grocery store. No, definitely not, then. He _could_ ask the homeless network about it.

"… nothing big, yes, probably just at home… No, no, you don't need to bother with that… Of course, of course, I'll ask Sherlock about it… Yes, I will try…"

Sherlock sighs, looking at John walking from the kitchen to his armchair, back and forth. Does he consciously know that he is doing that? It is highly disturbing, and now Sherlock knows that his mother is most likely inviting them for Christmas again, which implies an amazing dinner, but also the lack of mind-blowing Christmas sex after it. Damned be his childhood home and its thin walls. No, there is no dilemma: Christmas sex _definitely_ wins, and so Sherlock will have to convince John to spend the 24th and 25th at Baker Street, and see if they can also send Mrs Hudson off to her sister. Or maybe to _his_ parents. Wouldn't it be a fair trade, after all?

"The shed, really? … No, you're right… No… Yes… Of course!…"

Ah, Sherlock thinks, John's innocence in picking up the call that was so obviously from his attention-seeking mother, probably recounting by now his father's latest adventures in carpentry.

The case, Sherlock reminds himself. Right. Lestrade is baffled, of course, as he is always, about a man dropping dead in a bakery he was breaking into in the middle of the night. The autopsy said it was a heart attack, but Sherlock knows better. Poison (he should notify Lestrade about that, but John is already using the phone, and finding John's own phone would require to find out where it is, even if Sherlock knows that he left it on the kitchen counter half-an-hour ago. No, if Lestrade can't figure it out himself, he'll have to wait.) Sherlock has to question the two women running the bakery first, and the case will be solved by tomorrow (and hopefully _after_ the phone call ends).

"Redbeard… No, really?"

Sherlock immediately shakes himself out of his mind palace. Which embarrassing story is Mummy revealing about him, right now? It is enough that John knows about the time Mycroft made him believe that actors in movies would also die in real life when they were shot on screen, he does not need her to recall more awkward memories of his youth.

Poor John, he thinks, always too polite to make her stop talking. He goes for a while talking about their new case, while Sherlock pretends to be in his mind palace, watching John's back as he continues on walking between the kitchen and the fireplace, sometimes fidgeting with a piece of paper or moving the skull two centimeters to the left and then to the right.

"All right, all right… No, he's…" John looks at him, and Sherlock instinctively closes his eyes. "Busy. Yeah… Okay, sure!… Yes, I'll ask him and we'll call you back… All right… Take care… Bye bye."

John puts the phone down and comes back towards the sofa.

"She invited us for Christmas. _Again_ ," Sherlock says.

"Oh, _now_ you're not in your mind palace, are you?" John sighs. "Of course she did, she's your mother."

"I still do not understand why you feel the need to let her talk for hours on end."

John looks back at him as if he had suggested to murder a litter of kittens. He does not seem frustrated by the long conversation, even if it resulted mostly in small talk (the absolute worst). In fact, his shoulder are lower by five percent (relaxed) and he hummed a bit when ending the call (happy).

"Oh."

He stores the information in John's room in his mind palace: every time Mummy calls, he'll remember to be busy, so John can talk to her. Especially when Holidays are close. Isn't that the time when normal people care the most about their families? A family John _doesn't_ have, Sherlock tells himself. He's been incredibly thick.

John, who's now sitting back in his rightful place (under Sherlock's feet), looks at his phone and laughs a bit. Sherlock rolls his eyes: there goes, the embarrassing story.

"What?" he snaps.

"She told me that when you were a kidyou used to make wish lists to Santa. I still can't believe that you fell for that, even when you were little."

Sherlock rolls his eyes again. "I was very convincingly lied to. I did not last long."

"Your mum doesn't agree. She sent me a picture of your wish list when you were eleven."

"Oh god," Sherlock gasps, and tries to reach for the phone, stabbing John's thigh with his heel by trying to do so.

John keeps the phone out of reach by extending his right hand, fighting Sherlock with the left one. " _Dear Father Christmas_ — _Thank you for the pirate ship_ — oi, stop it, Sherlock! — _I received last year, although the dimensions of the quarterdeck are not historically accurate, if the ship truly is from the Blackbeard's time._ " John laughs, as Sherlock is now mostly resigned to sit beside him and sulk. He remembers what follows in the letter, and it is _not_ good. "You weren't that much different as a kid. Anyway— _This year, as you may already know since Mycroft probably told you, I changed school for the second time. Now I know I was not very kind all year, but I think that my wish is quite a simple one, so I hope it will not bother you that much: I would really like to have a friend. It can be at school or not, whatever is easier for you. Thank you again. PS. I know I said one wish, but if you're not too busy, I would really like to understand the concept of coevolution. Daddy tried to explain, but I don't think he really understands himself._ "

A second of silence passes as John finishes reading the letter, and looks back at Sherlock, who takes advantage of this moment of distraction to reach for the phone. "I'm going to delete that, if you don't mind."

"You know she can just send me another picture?"

"I'll burn the original."

"Sherlock."

" _What_?"

"Did you get it?"

"Did I get… what?"

"Your friend. For Christmas."

There's a moment of hesitation. "Yes. But he was twenty-six years late."

On that, John kisses him on the side of his head.


	3. Fruit cake / All dressed up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John solve a case in the middle of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for... murder, I guess?
> 
> Also, beware if you love fruit cake, it is not written under a positive light in this ficlet. ;)

John has trouble falling asleep. It is past two in the morning now, the clock says, as he lies on his back in the empty bed. As usual, when working on a case, Sherlock does not join him in the bedroom. Well, sometimes he does bundle up against John, especially if his sleep is restless, but he never sleeps. But tonight, John does not mind to be alone for a moment, thinking about what had had been said the evening before.

He likes talking to Violet. He constant babbling reminds her of his own mom, or maybe of his general idea of what his mother would be at this time of his life. It's silly, he knows: she had died when he was at war, and he had made his peace with it long ago. But uneasiness had entangled itself with the comforting idea of having a chat with a maternal figure: Violet had talked for a long while about Sherlock, and of course he had read the wish list a bit later.

John had known about Redbeard, of course, after meeting Sherlock's parents for the first time, yet he was not aware that Mycroft had brought in the dog as a gift for a lonely child that desperately wanted to have a friend. He had not had that problem himself as a kid: he always had been fairly popular, his problem relying more at home than at school.

John breathes in and out, tries to move a bit on his side, and sees that the clock ticks now 2:47. Great. He better get to sleep any time soon if he wants to be in a good mood in the morning. All of this thinking about Sherlock has given him an idea.

He closes his eyes. Breathes in, one, two, three, and out. Breathes in, one, two, three, and out.

Breathes in…

And out…

Breathes in…

And out…

Breathes…

"JOHN! WAKE UP!"

"Whaaaa?" John jerks in a sitting position on the bed, wiping drool off the side of his mouth. Sherlock is on all fours on the bed, his eyes shining bright in the darkness of the bedroom.

"The cameras at the bakery spotted movement. Lestrade is waiting for us, let's _go_!"

"I— Sherlock— wait!"

But he is already dashing out the room, and John stands up, grabs the first thing he sees (Sherlock's camel dressing gown), and runs after him.

 

***

 

That's how John ends up at the crime scene, at three in the morning, dressed in his short coat on top of the dressing gown, and in his usual boots but without socks. It is freezing outside, so now he is happy to be inside the bakery, at least, even if he does not look dignified in any way. Lestrade shoots him a look, which John answers with a shrug.

"The camera spotted movement," Lestrade explains, "but once we arrived it was only Alexia."

The young woman is seated at one of the tables, with a cup of tea in hand, visibly frustrated about the police being called on such a random thing.

"I was only checking on all the stuff," she says again to Sherlock, who is pirouetting around the room, evidently looking for something mere human beings cannot see. "I don't sleep very well since, you know, the murder." John nods, and puts his hand on her arm in a comforting gesture. Before he can say anything, Sherlock is behind him.

"Come here, John, I need your expertise on… something."

John follows him to the back-store, where Sherlock keeps on looking for… well, "something", probably.

"What did you need me for?"

Sherlock hums.

"Sherlock? Care to answer me, for once?"

No answer, again. John is slightly getting impatient and frustrated now. He had no sleep at all, and is standing half-dressed in a freezing storage room, arms crossed on his chest, the bottom of the dressing gown floating around his bare calves.

Sherlock takes out a tray of croissants, and John gasps when he starts stabbing them with a pocket knife he was apparently walking around with. He sniffs each one, looks unimpressed, takes out a tray of fruit cakes and repeats the same procedure.

This time, he is successful in whatever he is trying to achieve. "Aha! Fruit cake!"

Sherlock starts opening each cupboard, frantically searching for something. "John. Would you remind me what exactly was Wilson's cause of death?"

"Cardiac arrest caused by hypokalemia," John answers, knowing that Sherlock remembers correctly the cause of death, but wants John to understand the extraordinary connections his brain is trying to make.

"She said _murder_ , John."

John sniffs, half-irritated, half-oh-God-he's-so-hot-when-he-does-this. "I don't understand."

Sherlock opens another cupboard, and takes a small bottle out of it. "Robard," he whispers, and John sees that in his eyes, it all makes sense.

 

***

 

Sherlock puts down the small brownish bottle on the table, and looks at Alexia, who stills completely.

"Do you know what this is?" he says.

"No," she whispers, but even John can clearly see that she is lying.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "You do. You just said that Wilson was murdered, when we had not even released the autopsy. He could have died from a heart attack while robbing the place and nobody would have known. But you're quite right, this _is_ murder, and this is the weapon used: Barium acetate."

"I did not murder—"

"—It was easy, really, you've seen it on the telly before. A young man bothers you too much, you invite him in the middle of the night after having a day at your father-in-law's teaching laboratory. Clearly, Wilson is interested, and so he doesn't ask questions, and even takes a bit of fruit cake when you ask him nicely. He could hardly feel the chemical behind the horrible taste of that baked _ignominy_ , and so you made him eat it all, leaving him to die from poisoning and stating the whole thing as if he had broken into the place.

Lestrade, make the arrest, John is cold, I'm taking him home."

Before John can put in a word, Lestrade handcuffs Alexia, and there is enough movement so that Sherlock can pull him out of the small bakery.

 

***

 

"Here, take my coat."

"No, then _you_ 'll be cold."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, as if it is silly to suggest that he could ever be cold in the first place. Well, that's certainly not a stance he keeps when he wants some warmth when he gets in bed, John thinks. Without thinking much, he takes off his own coat and lets Sherlock wrap him in the Belstaff, before placing a kiss on his lips.

At the end of the street, the sun is slowly starting to rise.

"Here."

"Thanks. You should at least put my coat on your shoulder. You don't want to catch a cold."

Sherlock nods an pulls John's shorter coat on his back.

"So," John says, "Robard?" It is the only thing about the case he does not understand.

"Mmmh, yes, an American girl that used barium acetate to poison her father in the 90's. Nearly got away with it."

That definitely rings a bell. "That's the case we saw on that TV show!"

"It is."

John wants to say something about how shows like that make people go crazy and find new methods for murder, but then again _they_ watch it and it is not as if they are outside the "crazy" category of society. Whatever. Companionable silence falls between them as they walk in direction of Baker Street. They should be there in ten minutes, at the most.

" _Bakery robber meets a fruity end,_ " Sherlock suggests suddenly.

John laughs. "I was thinking about _Baking of a Murderer_."

He laughs at his own horrible pun and hears Sherlock snort beside him. "How come you always make the best ones?"

"Because the role of the brillant and gorgeous genius is already taken."

Sherlock snorts again, because John is getting dangerously close to romantic and sappy territories, which Sherlock pretends to be above of but in fact secretly loves (John knows it, of course). He also might be slightly blushing by now, John notices.

To distract the attention from him, Sherlock looks at the clouds. "Look. It's snowing."

John does not look. "Yes. Yes it is."


	4. Snowball fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys get in trouble with the press.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorryyyy, this is kind of crack-ish hahaha. Also, I cheated a bit on the prompt here, but what can you do.

 

Sherlock takes off his safety goggles to read the headline of the newspaper John just dropped on the kitchen table with a sigh.

 

_SHERLOCK HOLMES INSTIGATES A FIGHT_

_Yesterday morning, Alexia McMurphy was accused of Derek Wilson's murder, which occurred on on December 1rst. Behind the resolution of the case is no one other than Sherlock Holmes himself, the Internet-famous private detective. Holmes appeared in a bad mood yesterday and refused to give any statement to the press._

_When one of our delegates politely insisted on certain details about the murder, Holmes threw a snowball at him. "I received this enormous ball of ice and snow out of nowhere. I thought my nose was broken under the impact. I will see my doctor and my psychologist as soon as possible, and I have also contacted my lawyer," Mr. Henley reveals to the press, intending to—_

 

Sherlock chuckles when he sees the article of the magazine under the newspaper:

 

_BREAKING: "MY BOYFRIEND HAS NEEDS!" SHERLOCK HOLMES SAYS ABOUT JOHN WATSON_

_The Very Private Life of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson_

_Just as Holmes solved his last case, he refused answering the press that came to his door. Instead, he appeared in his dressing gown and threw a snowball at one of the people present in front of his door, asking if "someone had died with their finger on the doorbell" and "to leave them alone at once". When one of our crew members asked why the hurry, Holmes replied that his "boyfriend has needs and it would be rude to keep him waiting any longer", before storming off back inside._

_But is everything as idyllic as it seems? One of England's most famous couples still seems to be in their honeymoon period, as it appears through Holmes' words. But Miss Riley, a life-long friend, asserts that there might be—_

 

He remembers exactly what had happened yesterday: after having slept a few hours, they had had a round or two of celebratory sex (it had been two days, after all, since the beginning of the case), and while Sherlock was very occupied by celebrating a specific part of John's body, the bloody doorbell could not stop ringing, which prompted Mrs. Hudson to check on them.

Sherlock hates the press, obviously, but he also does not care what the press writes about them. John does, of course, for a reason he cannot quite understand. (Privacy?) His statement may have been a bit upfront, but it was the utter truth at the time: but now, the silence in the flat is heavy, and Sherlock knows it means that John is not particularly happy with him. _Trouble in paradise indeed_ , he thinks ironically. The press should go to hell.

He finds John sitting in his armchair, typing furiously away on his phone. (Blog post? Blog post.) Sherlock puts his hands on both sides of the chair, leaning in, while John tries not to give him any attention.

"You shouldn't pick fights with the press, Sherlock," he finally says, "nothing good ever comes out of it."

"They said private detective."

"What?"

"I'm not a private detective, I'm a _consulting_ one."

John rolls his eyes. "And that's what caught your attention? I'm not kidding. I know that you hate them, but they can make our lives impossible if only they wish to."

In a cat-like manner, Sherlock is already in John's lap, tucking his head under John's chin, avoiding eye-contact when he finally says, "I'm sorry. I only wanted to defend your integrity."

" _My_ integrity? Since that article came out, Harry called, Mike emailed me and my blog looks like a bloody battlefield. Please don't mention our sex life to the media again."

"Yes, your integrity. You were so undone that if it were you, going outside to chase them away, it would have ended up in bloodshed. I calculated the risks, and ergo, went myself."

"How noble of you." Instead of sounding mad, John kisses him, pulling the hair on the back of his head to better angle his face. 

"Isn't it?"

Sherlock kisses back, deeply, and this time, when they make their way towards the bed, no one disturbs them.

 

***

 

deus183892x [commented on 12/04 14:02]

I woudln't complain if I were you!!! Your bf has a nice arse;)

 

^ Sherlock Holmes [commented on 12/04 22:43]

Please refrain from posting this kind of comment on John's blog.

 

^^ John Watson [commented on 12/04 22:46]

He really does, though, and it's _mine_.

 

^^^ Sherlock Holmes [commented on 12/04 22:48]

Oh my god.

 

 


	5. Mistletoe / Decorating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is angry with the Christmas lights and Sherlock lends a hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Warning for general sappiness. Sorry-not-sorry. ;) )

"Wohoo, boys, are you decent up there?" Mrs. Hudson calls from downstairs.

"Yeah, you can come up," John answers back.

He is sitting on the floor, in front of the fireplace, trying to understand the logic behind the mysterious entanglement of the Christmas lights he is currently fighting with. It would be a good question to ask Sherlock, but right now, he is in the kitchen, experimenting on chloroplasts.

"Ooh, you're decorating," Mrs. Hudson says as she sits down in Sherlock's armchair. "No mistletoe this year?"

John sighs. "No, _someone_ apparently decided to experiment on it."

"We hardly need excuses to kiss, anymore." Sherlock's voice comes out of the kitchen, followed by the sound of the Bunsen burner turning on.

John chuckles: that much is true, but still, mistletoe was always a bit of a tradition for them. Mrs. Hudson stays a while and chats about how her sister is doing, about what the boys are planning to do on Christmas ("We're still not sure, we're invited at the Holmes's but I think Sherlock would prefer to stay here," followed by a positive grunt from the kitchen), and if they had thought about " _special resolutions_ " for the New Year ("Erhm, I'll guess we'll… see?", followed by total silence from the kitchen).

When Mrs. Hudson finally goes downstairs (not before having made tea for the both of them, while insisting that she is not their housekeeper, but a "nice cuppa would be good right now"), John starts to get slightly impatient with the Christmas lights. After a few curses, Sherlock comes out from the kitchen and sits down in front of him, crossing his legs and taking the other end of the tangled mess.

It's not really easier that way, but at least there are two brains working on the same problem now, and Sherlock is apparently able to make sense of the mess on the floor. His presence has a calming effect on John as they untangle the rest of it, mostly in silence, while sipping away their tea. When it's finally done, John stands up and goes to plug the lights in…

"Shit." No light. Nothing is working.

"One of them is broken," Sherlock says, and John sighs again. How much time can they spend on a single set of Christmas light? Couldn't they just throw it in the garbage and go buy some more?

"Can't you deduce which one?" John snaps, and instantly regrets it.

"Just take your end and I'll take mine, and we'll work up from there."

John nods, and starts inspecting the bulbs, trying to see which one is faulty. They are decorating, for Gods' sake', he thinks, there is no reason to be angry at something that is supposed to make them happy. Is this about what Mrs. Hudson was saying just earlier? Couples spending time together when Christmas is around the corner, laughing while putting up the lights and kissing under the mistletoe. The only problem being that the mistletoe is burned to ash and that the bloody Christmas lights are not working. John breathes in, trying not to show the anxiety that had build up in his head, while knowing perfectly well that Sherlock has already caught on that. That's why he came to help him, which is unusual enough that he would lend a hand in a such banal thing as decorating, but John knows it's because he was becoming frustrated. Sherlock can read him that well, and more than that, knows exactly how to calm him down. John smiles to himself: frankly, he does not need to be alarmed about Christmas plans. If Sherlock wants to spend it here, so be it. There will be multiple other occasions to spend Christmas at the Holmes's. _Special resolutions_ or not.

There is one light left between them, now.

"You've got to be kidding me," John sighs, just as Sherlock smirks.

He twists the bulb and replaces it with a spare one that came from the box, and suddenly, everything lights up, Sherlock including - while checking the bulbs, he had entangled himself in the Christmas lights, which were now going around the back of his neck and twisting on his left arm. They exchange a glance and both start laughing: he looks like a human Christmas tree, softly glowing in the dim light of the room, since night had fallen a while ago. It's probably very uncomfortable for him, but John stays still and stares, appreciating the way the light makes Sherlock's pale skin light up. Lovely.

"Aren't you going to help me?" Sherlock asks, trying to get rid of it all while being careful not to create any more knots. John smiles but takes pity on him, and so he goes on his knees to help get the line off his back.

"Come here," he asks Sherlock when it's done, patting on the rug just beside him. Without a word, Sherlock takes his cup of tea and sits down against John, letting him his head on his shoulder. 

"We're not done," Sherlock states, looking at the glowing pile of Christmas lights on the carpet.

"We'll get that later. Just sit with me."

And Sherlock does, and after a moment he starts telling John about his experiment on mistletoe, and how a study found out that setting up Christmas decorations made people happier, and that's why he did not complain this year about how early John decided to bring them out of the basement, because that's them now, _happy_ , and _as soon as possible_.

 


	6. Cold / Cozy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock have the perfect excuse to stay in bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for Explicit rating for this ficlet!
> 
> I've done some vague smut, I've done dialogue-only smut, so here is my first official smut scene! It is probably really bad, but hey, there was an attempt!

 

Sherlock wakes up with the need to relieve himself. Judging by the shadows in the room, it's a bit past six in the morning: they went to bed early, but they can stay in bed for a few more hours. No case: they have all the time in the world. Going to the bathroom, he marvels at this fact. Before John, he would never had wanted to stay in bed longer than necessary. Now, his feet are freezing on the bathroom's cold tiles, and he only wishes to get back to the warmth of their bed and of John's sleeping body as soon as possible.

When he is done, he wanders in the living room: they had forgotten to close the window before hurrying to bed, the night before, and now the whole flat is terribly cold. Sherlock closes it swiftly, and returns to the bedroom.

The heath gathered under the sheet is a nice contrast as he tucks his cold feet between John's, who stirs a bit but does not wake up. He won't fall asleep anytime soon, he knows, but at least he can make the most of this lazy morning in bed.

John looks definitely younger in his sleep and Sherlock wants to touch his face, to trace the thin skin of his eyelids with his fingers, but knows that it would only wake him up. Instead, he synchronizes his breath with John's, and stares. It still feels sometimes a bit impossible, waking up beside John, not by accident or because there is only one bed to share, but because both of them want it. He never thought his life would take that turn, ever. But then again, John defies everything.

"Mooorning," John yawns, as his eyes flutter open.

"Good morning."

"'Been awake for long?" John's voice is hoarse, but it only makes him sound sexier, in Sherlock's opinion.

"No," he says, rearranging the duvet on his shoulder, "but we forgot to close the window last night and I believe the next ice age reached the living room."

It is scientifically inaccurate, since the world is in an ice age, but it does have the attend effect on John, who chuckles a bit. "Mmh, let's stay in bed all day, then. C'mere, love."

Sherlock obeys, tucking his head under John's chin and bringing his knees in to avoid his feet slipping from under the cover. He starts trailing his hand over John's chest, just as John slips his hand down Sherlock's back to cup his arse. Sherlock presses himself against John more insistently, kissing the underside of his jaw, going down his neck, softly pressing his lips against his Adam's apple. John hums softly, and when Sherlock looks back at him, he can see him smiling, his eyes still sleepy. Well, that settles it then, he decides, before disappearing under the duvet, gently pushing John on his back.

Under the cover, Sherlock can't see much, but it is the opposite of a problem, really: he knows John's body better than anything else, and he knows exactly how to make him respond in certain ways. He settles himself between John's legs, circling his thumb on John's inner thigh, up near his groin, where he knows John is particularly sensitive. John jerks a bit, but relaxes into the touch and spreads his legs even more, allowing Sherlock to lower his head and kiss him on the soft spot just there. He trails his lips up John's thigh, holding his leg with his hand as John shudders. Sherlock closes his eyes, moves to the other side to repeat exactly what he was doing, and feels absolutely blessed to be able to procure such pleasure to John — he deserves every bit of it, in Sherlock's opinion.

He does not usually tease that much: he prefers to go straight to the point, especially when they are in a hurry after a case, but they are not going anywhere and John was still half asleep minutes ago _and_ he does not want to startle him too much too early in the morning _and_ slow _and_ caring is just fine right now.

When Sherlock nags at the skin of his groin, John writhes. "Sherlock— _fuck_."

Oh right. Going over John's belly with his hand, still blinded in the dark, Sherlock comes in contact with John's substantial erection, and his own desire to claim it with his mouth. Without waiting any longer — John asked, after all, and whatever John asks, John gets — Sherlock swipes his tongue along John's shaft, hearing the loud gasp turn into a moan.

He takes John in his mouth, just as John reaches under the covers, nearly putting his index finger in Sherlock's eye.

"Oi, watch it!"

"C'mere, Sherlock, c'mere," John says with insistence, gently pulling on his hair.

Sherlock obliges, coming from under the covers and reaching for John's lips. Change of plans, then, but it's as good: it was getting too hot under the duvet, and he knows that his face is probably all red right now, which John always seems to appreciate (something about accentuating his cheekbones?). For a moment, they kiss lazily, hands exploring every inch of skin they are able to reach. Concentrated on John, Sherlock had been oblivious of his own erection, but now that he is lying on top of John he cannot stop himself from rutting against his hip. John takes Sherlock's arse in both of his hands, squeezing and pulling him closer, if that is even possible. Sherlock moans in John's mouth, half-conscious that he is making that sort of sound in the first place.

John moves his hands to Sherlock's hips, centering him over his own body, before reaching between them to take both of them in hand. He can't get his fingers fully around them, but right now it's the least of Sherlock's concerns, already drunk with the notion that _that's it, he cannot get closer to John_. They are not as much kissing now as they are panting in each other's mouths—

"Fuck— Sherlock, I'm so close—"

"John—"

"Uh, fuck, fuck, _fuck_!"

John groans as he starts coming, and Sherlock is so close he wishes he could stop time right there. Bliss. The word floats around his mind, along with John's name, and just when he starts jerking himself off he is not exactly sure where the words come from, echoing somewhere in the room.

(Bliss. John. Bliss. John. Bliss. Johnjohnjohnjohn _john_ —)

His mind goes blank for a moment as the orgasm hits him, and the next thing he knows, it's that he is lying on top of John, with no intent move. They can stay there until the end of times, and he would never get bored, and it would be everything he ever wanted. He realizes that John is kissing him, the side of his head, his neck, quick little pecks to bring him back slowly to reality.

After a moment, John reaches for the flannel on the nightstand, and cleans them both.

"I take it that there are no news from Lestrade?" he asks.

"No."

"How's the experiment coming along?"

Sherlock looks at the door. "It's probably ruined, the temperature dropped too much, I can't take a new variable into consideration at this point in the process."

"Oh, I'm sorry," John says, sincere. "We could buy more mistletoe later, if you want to."

"No need. I wasn't getting anywhere with that experiment anyway. And weren't we supposed to stay in bed all day?"

John chuckles. "Right."

Sherlock hums, and as he's just starting to get cold, he reaches for the duvet that had been thrown at the other end of the bed at some point during the action, to cover both of them as they lie face to face. They laugh a bit, without really knowing why. At some point, John takes Sherlock in one arm, and soon enough, they fall asleep for a second time.

Bliss, really.


	7. Christmas cards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Misunderstandings.

John comes up the stairs and takes his coat off. Fortunately, the flat is warmer than yesterday.

"Sherlock, you home?"

No answer. John takes his shoes off and slumps on the sofa with a sigh. He had just gone to lunch with Harry, who is _definitely not_ drinking again, and that should be good but it also puts her in a constant terrible mood. The conversation had quickly turned into a fight and John does not even remember how it started, who got frustrated in the first place, who spoke hurtful words before the other one. He had asked her to calm down a bit, explaining that being sober was not a reason to try to bite everybody's head off, but Harry exclaimed that he could not know that, as if he had never gone through therapy himself, as if he was some kind of dumb idiot who—

John breathes in, and massages his shoulder with one hand, but it does not really help. He hears footsteps from the hallway, and a second later, Sherlock is in the living room, book in hand, going around the chairs and visibly concentrated on whatever he is reading.

"I saw Harry just now."

No answer. Not even a sarcastic _I know, you already told me that_.

"She's in a terrible mood lately. I hope she won't relapse."

Again no answer. Sherlock is turning the pages, walking around, completely oblivious of John's talking. Why can't he listen, for once? John asks himself, anger boiling up in his chest. He always takes note when Sherlock is in a bad mood, and does whatever is necessary. But now, just when he needs to blow off some steam, nobody cares, of course.

"Sherlock," he says. Nothing, again. "Sherlock!" John exclaims, and finally, Sherlock turns his head, as if surprised that John is even there in the first place.

His eyes scan quickly John's body. "Your shoulder is hurting you," he deduces, "and you've seen Harry."

John sighs, and decides not to bother repeating the whole thing. Once is enough. "What are you reading?" he asks, pointing towards the book Sherlock is holding.

" _On the interpretation of Nature_ , by Diderot."

"Never heard of that." Did they have that book already?

"Diderot was a French philosopher during the Enlightenment. He was the main editor of the _Encyclopedia_."

John frowns. Since when does Sherlock read philosophical treaties? Well, the title he just mentioned sounds kind of scientific, but he never knew Sherlock was interested in a literary method of presenting science.

"Maybe I'll read it when you're done, then."

Sherlock shakes his head, turning another page. "Oh no, you wouldn't understand."

John closes his eyes. Breathes in, and out. Nope. "Why the bloody hell every one thinks I am some kind of _incompetent_!"

Sherlock stares back, obviously taken by surprise, mouth falling half-open. "I just— I didn't mean to—"

"Yeah, I'm sure you didn't! And I'm sure Harry also didn't mean to start insulting me in that damned café but what can I do? I'm apparently not good enough for anybody, so I'll just leave to make more room for your _massive_ intellect!"

Without even thinking about it, he grabs his coat and storms off.

 

***

 

_John? —SH_

 

_John, where are you?—SH_

 

_Come back home. —SH_

 

_I did not mean to insult you, John, I'm sorry. I said that because the book is written in French.—SH_

 

_John? —SH_

 

_Shit. Really?_

 

_I'm sorry, I overreacted. Shit._

 

_Where are you? —SH_

 

_At the pub, with Mike. I'll be back soon, okay?_

 

_All right. —SH_

 

_Molly called, she has a liver. —SH_

 

_I mean, a separate liver. Not hers. —SH_

 

_She obviously wouldn't call to tell me that she has a liver in her own body. —SH_

 

_Yeah I got that. You go, we'll see other back home later, okay?_

 

_Yes. —SH_

 

***

 

The minute John enters 221b, he sees that Sherlock has turned on all the Christmas lights in the flat, and for a moment, emotion overwhelms him. He knows he acted like a jerk earlier: Sherlock had done nothing wrong… Well, that is actually false, since he had not listened to John, but then again, it's _Sherlock he is talking about_ , Mike had said at the pub, and John knew that he had a point. Actually, talking with Mike had calmed him down, both about Harry and Sherlock, and about himself too.

He remembers seeing Sherlock's text and feeling as if a stone had sank in his stomach. Of course the book was written in goddamn French, and of course his genius boyfriend can read French. He still feels stupid about that, the way he had acted towards Sherlock, who obviously did not understand why he was getting angry at him.

John sighs. Hopefully, when Sherlock will come back, he will apologize properly and everything will be fine. It has to.

From the corner of his eye, he sees the book standing on the mantle, lighted by the Christmas lights all around. He comes closer, and picks up the Christmas card standing against the book: it's one of those from the stack they bought at the beginning of the month, which Sherlock founddull because it did not have any skulls on it. John picks it up, and looks at the back, where Sherlock has written something:

 

 _Letter from Denis Diderot to Sophie Volland, October 15_ _ th _ _, 1759._

_Translated by SH._

“ _When the cell is divided in a hundred thousand parts, the primitive animal dies, but all his laws still exist. O, my John, I still have the hope to touch you, to feel you, to love you, to seek you, to blend with you when we no longer exist! If there were in our nature a law of affinity; if we were destined to blend into one common being; if in the space of eternity I could remake a whole with you; if the dispersed molecules of your lover became agitated and began to search for yours! Leave me this hope, this consolation. It’s so sweet. It assures me of eternity in you and with you._ ”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Diderot (1713-1784) is a French philosopher of the Enlightenment era, and he also was interested in science. He was the main editor of the Encyclopédie and wrote other important books such as Jacques the Fatalist and D'Alembert's Dream.
> 
> The quote is from one of his most famous letter to Sophie Vollange, his mistress, with the only change that it's John's name Sherlock wrote instead of Sophie's. It's translated of course, and I can only say that the French version sounds a thousand times better, but hey, what can I do! I love it because it is kind of science-y (the whole letter is even more), but that kind of science that serves romance, and I think it's something Sherlock would definitely use to express his love to John.


	8. Scrooge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been five days since the last case, and Sherlock is about to go crazy.

Sherlock checked his emails (nothing), his website (nothing), John's blog (nothing). Nothingnothingnothingnothing banging on the four walls of his skull.

"Nothing!" he screams, checking his emails again (nothing), his website (nothing), and finally, John's blog (nothing).

_Nothing_ had gone on for five days now, and he is tired and sick and bored of it.

"John. Give me your gun."

John is on his own laptop, in his armchair, reading about some new medical technical used in the field (boring). He hums, and answers as if he had not heard Sherlock in the first place (false). "We need more milk."

"I need your gun!"

"You don't _need_ a gun, Sherlock, we need to buy milk."

Why can't John see? He needs to feel the gun in his hands, to hold something tangible, to feel the adrenaline flooding his brain, the sound of gunshots echoing around him, _anything_ to make his mind stop running like that. Instead, Sherlock fidgets with the papers on the table. Is there a cold case in there, somewhere? No: he reminds himself that he solved the last one a week ago.

"Nothing on your website?" John asks casually, still not looking up from his laptop.

Sherlock opens the new tab and looks at the last comments. He snorts. " _Mr. Holmes, is my daughter sleeping with the chauffeur?_ — Of course she is, even the idiots watching Downton Abbey could figure this one by themselves! _Mister Sherlock, Pickles has been lost for three days now. Mum says he ran away from home, but I'm sure he has been kidnapped. Please help. Thank you._ — A missing dog, John, a dog!"

"Well, that's better than—"

"He probably ran away because they tried to put him in one of those ridiculous Christmas jumpers for dogs. They do that, now! With a name like that, no wonder the poor thing ran for his life! Nothing better than a dog missing! Each year it's the same, everyone feeling obligated to visit family, be kind to each other, give their loved ones another chance, postpone their murders, argh!"

"All right, better take that away from you, Scrooge." John closes Sherlock's laptop, just as Sherlock stands up to curl himself up in his armchair.

Nothing. Nothing! Damned be Christmas and its lights and its frenzy and its terrible lack of anything remotely interesting. He breathes in, and out, realizing that John had just said something. "Isn't that the green one?" he asks.

"No, that's the Grinch. Which would fit too, actually, you kind of have the same smile."

Sherlock doesn't even know what to answer to that. Instead, he looks at John, who comes closer, taking his wrists in his hands.

" _You're a mean one, Mr. Holmes_ ," John begins to sing.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Oh dear god, please don't."

John chuckles, but tugs him only harder, bringing Sherlock on his feet. " _You really are a heel! You're as cuddly as a cactus, you're as charming as an eel—_ "

"How can you possibly have the capacity to clutter your brain with lyrics from a children's movie?"

He can't escape John's terrible dancing technique, which consists of putting one hand on Sherlock's back, taking the other one in his own, and rocking them back and forth as if they were dancing some kind of tango mashed up with a country ballad.

"— _Mr. Holmeeees, you're a bad banana with a greasy black peel!_ "

"Charming, John, really charming."

John kisses him on his nose (he has a weird obsession with his nose), and decides to leave his forehead against his, bringing him closer and humming the rest of the song. Sherlock knows it's only to make him calm down, but it's working. Moving a bit, being close to John— it shakes off the clouds in his mind for a moment. It will not last long, especially if there isn't a case soon, but at least he has some control back.

"How about I take you out? You haven't left the flat for days, no wonder you're bored. We could go eat somewhere and then walk a bit."

"And buy milk."

"Yes, that too."

John smiles and Sherlock knows everything will be all right.


	9. Ghosts of Christmas Past / Wrapped up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ten years ago, on the 9th of December, John's brother in arms was killed in action. Today, John remembers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is preeeetty angsty, so sorry about that if you only wanted fluff! This will probably be the angstiest ficlet for this challenge, I promise it gets better after it, though!
> 
> Warning: John recalls the death of someone that was dear to him, so this ficlet contains the death of character who is shot, a mental breakdown and some elements (I guess?) of PTSD.

John opens the box, careful not to make any harsh sounds that would wake up Sherlock in the bedroom below. Lestrade had finally called them about a case today, which Sherlock solved in four hours, but still, it was better than nothing, and the distraction was greatly valued: John had nearly forgotten that they are the 9th today, and he is not entirely sure if it is a good thing or a bad one.

It means that he is moving on, he knows, but a part of him still wants to clench to that memory, even how far away it seems now. John looks at the contents of the box he had just pulled from his old wardrobe. Everything is still intact: the dog tags, the dirtied piece of white fabric with the red cross that used to be his brassard, an old photo and a bullet he had snuck into his pocket years ago, on the 9th of December, minutes after Carter had died. It's pretty much all that's left from his years in Afghanistan. Years of service, in a tiny box, forgotten in the back of a wardrobe.

John bites his bottom lip, and takes a good look at the picture. It was taken in November, a month before Carter was killed. They are all standing there, smiling to the camera, unaware of what was about to happen. He looks at Carter's childish face: he had been barely out of med school when he joined them, newly engaged to his long-term girlfriend who was expecting, a bright young kid that had everything to look forward to.

 

_"Captain Watson, sir?"_

_"Busy, Smith. Talk quickly."_

_"It's Carter, sir."_

_"I don't have all night, Smith, tell me what's going on."_

_"He's wounded, sir."_

_"How? Where?"_

_"He's been shot by a local he tried to attend to, sir. GW on the right upper arm… We found him only now, sir, but the blood loss is… bad, sir."_

_"I don't have time for euphemisms, Smith. Pass me the scissors on my left."_

_"We think he might not make it to the base, sir."_

_"You think?! How good does that do? Shit. Who's he with?"_

_"With Addams, sir."_

_"Good. Addams is good. You go back to them and keep me updated, Smith, I have to finish this first and then we'll get him on the chopper. Understood?"_

_"Yes sir."_

 

John remembers it perfectly well: the night falling on the desert, the smell of ashes, and blood, dear God, the _blood_. He remembers the frightened look in Carter's eyes as they got him on the chopper — hell, he even made it to the base, against all odds, but at that point the young lad seemed not so scared anymore, as he was faintly smiling, try to see what was left of his arm.

 

_"Shit. Won't be no good as a doctor now."_

 

John remembers Carter laughing, laughing at the fact that he wouldn't be able to practice anymore, as if he was not fucking _dying_ on John's watch. Then, there had been pain, anger, tears, more laughter, and finally:

 

_"Cap' Watson?"_

_"Yes?"_

_"Could you— John— could you tell her, for the name— I like— Amelia?"_

_"Yes— yes, of course, I will."_

 

Lieutenant Daniel Carter died on December 9th, at 22:13. John had called time of death. The proper men had been said to tell the family, along with Carter's last words. John had forgotten about the baby. Of all things, Carter was about to be a father, had a lovely fiancée and a loving family, and John had nothing, nothing at all, yet he was the one to survive—

"John?"

He turns his head, coming back from the dark place he went in his thoughts. Sherlock is standing by the door, wrapped up in the bed's sheet, and if there was any confusion on his face it washed up as soon as he saw the box John is holding.

"Do you want to be alone?" he asks, calmly.

John hesitates. His reflex would be to deny that he needs Sherlock's presence, which he _does_. Something Ella said about trusting people and letting them in. He wants to. He really does, only he is unsure how.

He sniffs, then shakes his head. Sherlock sits down beside him, back against the bed. Neither of them speaks. John remembers how he felt back then, that Christmas after Carter died: it was one of the worst he had spend, with the one when he came back to London before meeting Sherlock. He had asked himself at the time if he would have given his life in exchange of Carter's, and the answer had been a simple one: yes. Now, he is not so sure the answer would be same, and that above all makes him thoroughly disgusted with himself.

Sherlock stays beside him, relaxed, wiggling his fingers to hold John's hand properly, and John lets him. He takes the photograph in his hands, and shows it to Sherlock.

"The bloke beside me— the young one. His name was Carter. He died on this day, ten years ago. We were on the field, and I was patching up one of our men, when he— he was attacked by a local, someone he saw was injured and he tried to help, and fuck— he got shot."

John breathes in, realizing that he may not be able to make it through his recounting without breaking down. "It wasn't so bad— I mean, he could have been saved, with a skilled surgeon and a bit of luck, but really, he lost too much blood."

Sherlock squeezes his hand harder.

"I know that we were all brothers in arms and all that, but he really was like a brother to me. I've known him for only a year— Christ, Sherlock— he was about to have a kid, and he wasn't much older than a kid himself, and he died. He fucking died on me."

He is crying now, and doesn't even bother to hide it. It doesn't matter. Nothing bloody matters. "I thought that between the two of us, it would have to be me, right? Or that I spent too much time on the man I was trying to help, maybe, maybe I could have—"

"You were doing your job. He was doing his. He was aware of the risks."

"I know. I _know_ that. I— shit, I'm sorry. It's just that—"

Sherlock gets an arm around him, bringing him closer. "Yes?"

"I mean, I don't think about it that often now— and nearly forgot that it was today— and sometimes, well, I guess I— it's weird but I feel bad about— about having everything he couldn't have."

Sherlock looks at him more intensely, and takes him in both of his arms, a bit awkwardly. John doesn't even resist it, but hides his face in Sherlock's shoulder.

"John. You deserve to be happy. He would want you to."

It's simple, really. It's simple and silly and now John is weeping, weeping so hard in Sherlock's arms that he has no control over himself. It's flooding all around him, the relief of knowing — even if it is only through what Sherlock had just said — that he did not do anything wrong, that things happened, and there is no way to stop them from happening. There is no way to know what would have happened if Carter had lived, norif God himself had shown up and offered a deal in exchange of John's life. It had happened and it was in the past and now Sherlock's hand is petting his hair and he wants to feel guilty and disgusted about breaking down in front of him but right now he can't really stop crying because it feels so, _so_ good he can't even remember the last time it happened.

He won't forget Carter, nor the other men that died in Afghanistan, because that's a part of him and it matters. But what also matters is his life right here and right now and maybe it is important to remember the 9th, but he also deserves to be happy the other 364 days of the year, and he does not know how much time has passed when he finally decides that, only that there is a mattress under his body now and Sherlock's arms are still around him and really, it's the only thing he is aware of before sleep finally takes over him like a wave.


	10. Eggnog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock plans something in John's back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I aaaam kind of proud of this one! For no reason really. I just am. 
> 
> Also, fluff, to balance yesterday's angst! (And you'll probably need to read yesterday's ficlet to understand the plot, if you already haven't!)

Sherlock yawns as he picks up the cup of coffee from the conference table: he has not slept at all during the night, watching John, hoping that he would not get any nightmares, but he was so tired from crying that he slept just fine. When Sherlock had been sure he would not wake up, he went for his laptop and conducted his own little research.

Now, John is sitting in front of him, considerably in a better mood, but only half-listening to what Lestrade is saying: something about the evidence found against the suspect of yesterday's kidnapping of an elderly lady, which Sherlock has already solved — he really does not know why they need to bother with all the paperwork since they've got who they were looking for.

"—decide if we have enough evidence against Reeds to prosecute him—"

Looking at John, Sherlock mimes a judge taping on the table with one of those silly little mallets: "Guilty," he mouths, which makes John giggle.

Good. Very good.

"Erhm, sorry Greg, do go on," John says, realizing that Lestrade had apparently stopped talking. (Did he?)

"Yes, thank you, well— as I was saying, any declarations he made to both of you are non receivable in court, so we have to get him to admit to—"

Sherlock rolls his eyes and sighs, which prompts John to smile a second time, but then, Sherlock feels John's foot pushing on his own, in an gentle warning. Still openly staring at him, Sherlock imprisons John's ankle between both of his legs and holds tightly when he tries to fight back. John smirks, and Sherlock gives him a questioning look, but suddenly, John is there, rubbing his foot on Sherlock's calves.

His mouth falls open. Well, if that's how John wants to play—

"You are worse than bloody teenagers!"

Sherlock jumps in his seat at Lestrade's words and John's foot falls back on the carpeted floor with a thump.

"Do you still need us, Inspector?" John asks, with a coy smile on his face.

Lestrade grunts. "Get out."

He does not need to order twice before Sherlock is already on his feet, tugging John by the sleeve.

 

***

 

Sherlock enters the café and pulls a chair for John. "I hope you are not going to scold me," he says jokingly.

"Well actually—"

"You started it," Sherlock snorts. He looks at the menu, and then at the people sitting around them. He got themselves a table in a quiet corner near the window. This way, he is able to see outside, and John has a good view on the whole café.

"I did not!" John protests, lips curling into a smile.

"You moved the first, _you_ started it."

"You're right, I guess I'm guilty."

Sherlock beams. "I'm always right. I'm a detective, it's my job."

"All right, Mr. Detective, tell me what you've been hiding from me, then."

Sherlock's mouth falls open and for a moment his mind goes blank. He instantly tries to regain his usual composure. Is he that obvious?

"Nothing, of course," he says, but knows that John won't believe it.

Indeed: "You've been trying to make me laugh since this morning, you always do that when you're nervous. And now you've taken me to a café we've never been before, but you clearly knew where you were taking me."

Impressive. Quite, quite impressive, Sherlock thinks. "My Boswell is learning."

"Or I just know you that well," John says, standing up and stopping beside Sherlock to lean for a kiss. "So, shall I just go and order for us both, then?"

"Eggnog for me," Sherlock answers, kissing back, "please."

Smiling to himself, he turns on his chair and watches as John orders two eggnogs for them both. He is right, of course, John is always right. He has been trying to make him laugh since they got up in the morning, not because of what happened the night before (although that did count to), but because of what is about to happen. Sherlock checks his watch. 11:52. Eight minutes to go, then. He is frankly unsure how John will react, and he hates being unsure. Yesterday, John had shared a significant event that happened during his years in Afghanistan, something he had not done before. Sherlock is glad that he can be trusted in that way, now, and so he is thoroughly afraid that this trust won't last when John will understand what Sherlock had just done. Or maybe he will be happy about it, Sherlock really can't tell. He can take the risk, though, to make John happy. Yes. Good.

"Sherlock?"

He realizes John is back in his seat, with the two eggnogs. "Sorry, I was thinking."

"Are you sure you're all right? We could take this to go, if you want to."

He shakes his head. "No, of course not, I'm fine."

Sherlock sees the silhouettes moving on the pavement, and soon after, the café's door open. He breathes in and stares at an invisible point on the table. "John… Don't be mad."

"Do I have a reason to be mad?"

"Well, after what you told me, yesterday—" Sherlock risks a look at John, and can see the way his jaw clenches. "I've researched and— well, look at the counter."

From the reflection in the window, Sherlock sees them. A young woman with a nine years-old blonde girl.

"I don't understand," John says.

"They've been coming here every Saturday for the past few months. It was easy, really, tracking them back and—"

"Oh my god." John puts his hand on his mouth, but he is not looking at Sherlock. In the reflection, he can see that the little girl had turned around and is now smiling at them. "She— she has his eyes."

He does not sound mad. Just surprised. Pleasantly surprised. Sherlock finally allows himself to breathe again. "John, this is Amelia Carter — the government allowed a special measure for her to take her father's name, even if the wedding was never done in the end. As I was saying, they come here each Saturday for hot chocolate, according to Sarah's Facebook profile."

John smiles and shakes his head. "I can't stare too much. Jesus." He sniffs and lifts his head, obviously trying to swallow back the tears. Happy ones, Sherlock deduces. John takes his hand on the table and holds tightly.

"Her birthday is on the 4th of April. They have two cats and live comfortably in a small flat in Brixton. Amelia is the first of her class."

"Do you know what she wants to do, later?"

Sherlock smiles. "Apparently, she wants to be a car."

"You mean, like a driver?" John is adorable when confused.

"No, a car. That's what she wants to be."

"That's—"

"John, I wanted to be a pirate at that age. She's _nine_."

John chuckles. "Fair enough."

Sherlock takes a look back. The little family is seated at the other corner of the café. "You could go… talk to them, if you want to."

"Do they know that we're here?"

"No, it's entirely up to you."

"It'd prefer not, then. Can we, just, stay here a bit longer?"

Sherlock smiles and nods. He hopes his plans has worked, that John understands that both Sarah and Amelia are fine, and more importantly, _happy_. He could have just told him, but Sherlock works with facts, and he knew how direct proof is valuable.

They sit there, for another half-hour, sipping away their eggnogs, John glancing from time to time to the little girl who was happily humming-along to the café's radio and its Christmas carols. When Sherlock is done with his drink, John stands up, and he follows him outside.

It is snowing right now, and just when they are far enough from the café, John turns around and pulls at Sherlock's scarf for a kiss. Sherlock complies: John tastes like the eggnog he just drank.

"You're amazing, you know that?"

Sherlock can feel his cheeks heat up. How embarrassing. "Oh really, it was nothing, anybody could have find them."

"I mean— doing this for me." Oh. John puts his arms around Sherlock's waist and kisses him again.

"Home?" he asks.

"Just a stop before that. You have their address, right?"

Sherlock nods. "I thought you weren't interested in—"

"I'm not, but right now, we need to get to a toy store, and find the biggest car we can."


	11. Christmas carols / Violin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They invite Greg and Mrs. Hudson over, Sherlock plays the violin, then John can't get his hands off him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated E for explicit smut, my friends!
> 
> Again, very new to this, but I hope you'll enjoy it?

They had decided — well, John had suggest and Sherlock had agreed — to invite Lestrade for dinner, both to apologize for yesterday and get the man out of his house a bit, since Sherlock had deduced that he was going through a rough time due to his divorce. John had wanted to cook something fancy for once, so they had asked Mrs. Hudson for her slow-cooker and invited her too as a thank you.

Now that they are done with eating the bourguignon beef (which John learned to pronounce correctly, even though Sherlock said his accent is terrible), the four of them are sitting in the living room, Mrs. Hudson in John's armchair, and John and Greg on the sofa. Sherlock is standing by the window, playing whatever Mrs. Hudson asks him to (Christmas carols for the most part), while John chats with Greg.

Apparently, Greg's ex had asked to have the children over for Christmas, and until the divorce is not completely settled, he can't do much about it.

"Ah… I'm sorry, it really sucks…" John knows that his attempt to keep the conversation going is not good, not good at all. But right now, more than half of his attention is currently on Sherlock, who is wearing an old pair of tight, _tight_ jeans, since his last pair of clean trousers had some stew spilled on while cooking. He had complained a bit about it, earlier, but it _really_ do wonders to his arse. And to John's brain, visibly.

"Thanks…" Greg answers, although he sounds a bit concerned. "I know I'll see them on the 26th, but you know, first Christmas without their Dad, I mean, it's tough for them, but also—"

John hums in vague agreement. He really should be listening, but at this point Greg is repeating everything he had already said at dinner, encouraged by Mrs. Hudson's acerbic comments on ex-husbands and ex-wives.

At some point, Greg realizes that John is not listening. "You're really gone on him, aren't you?"

John can't help but smile as he reaches for his glass of wine. He remembers how earlier he slipped his hand in Sherlock's back pocket as he stood in front of the counter, looking if he was done with serving the beef in the plates. He had reached for a quick peck then, and when he had turned around, Greg glanced at them, smiling, before answer whatever question Mrs. Hudson had for him about the latest scandal. John now wonders if they had not been a bit inconsiderate, in retrospection.

"Sorry, Greg, we didn't mean to rub it in—"

"No, no! It makes me happy, if anything. I mean, what, it's been a few months and you still look at each other like there's no one else in the room. You had it coming, though, the both of you. And he definitely deserves it. I mean— you do to, don't get me wrong, but I was always a bit worried that… you know, he'd never be able to find anyone."

John tries to answer, but before he can utter a word Mrs. Hudson comes and takes him by the wrist. "Oh John, it's my favorite!" she says while Sherlock starts playing _Baby it's cold outside_ for the fourth time of the evening, and John indulges by taking her hand and starting to dance.

She had a bit too much at that point but he is happy to make her laugh, spinning her gently around the room, locking his eyes from time to time with Sherlock's, who smiles back and keeps on playing. Greg is right, John reflects: Sherlock deserves everything. John can still catch the surprise in Sherlock's eyes, from time to time, when they kiss or whisper to each other or touch, and while John prides himself in being the first and the last, knowing that Sherlock had never had someone show him all those things before makes him a little sad, sometimes.

Just as Sherlock finishes the last notes of _Silent night_ , Greg stands up and takes an inebriated Mrs. Hudson by the shoulders.

"I'm taking you downstairs, all right? It's quite late now, and our hosts probably want to be left alone."

God bless Greg, John thinks, as he bids them goodbye. As soon as they are down the stairs, he reaches for his glass and sits back in his usual armchair, all eyes on Sherlock, who starts playing _Have yourself a merry little Christmas_. It's John's favorite, because his Mum used to sing it all the time, and Sherlock is playing just for him now, and that, above all, feels incredibly intimate.

That's it, John decides, enough with that, is and without warning he scrambles to his knees in front of Sherlock, who lets the violin down and stares back. John smiles, looking up, his intent clear, before running his nose up and down Sherlock's crotch.

"I like those jeans on you," John says, running his hands on Sherlock's arse.

"Duly noted."

John kisses him through the fabric, and Sherlock whimpers softly. "John—"

If Sherlock wasn't hard two minutes ago, it's not the case anymore. Taking pity on him, John unzips and tugs the jeans down, then his pants, and finally, _finally_ frees Sherlock's erection. John teases him a bit by kissing the head of his cock. Sherlock moans and puts the violin on the table as gently as he can, before slipping his fingers through John's hair, who finally takes him in his mouth.

John loves this, going down on Sherlock, he loves to taste him, to smell him, to give him so much pleasure that his clever mouth can't even say a word. It's only sounds now, and as John bobs his head up and down, he can _hear_ the mechanics of Sherlock's brain going crazy.

"John— John—"

"Mmh, yes, love?"

"I— I—"

John smiles, rubbing his palm on the small of Sherlock's back. "What do you want— anything you want."

"You." Sherlock closes his eyes, swallowing. "You know— Inside."

John gets on his feet and kisses his blushing cheeks. "Of course, love, 'course we can do that. Bedroom?"

Sherlock nods, already working on John's trousers, which are also becoming very tight. They make their way towards the bedroom, leaving pieces of clothing behind, hands on each other, until they are naked and hungrily kissing on the bed.

John reaches for the lube on the nightstand and coats his fingers with it, and just as he settles himself between Sherlock's legs, Sherlock slides his hand on the back of John's neck and pulls him for another kiss.

"You looked amazing tonight— you're so gorgeous," John says, between kisses, as he slides his hand between Sherlock's spread legs, "I couldn't wait for them to leave—"

Sherlock gasps and lets his head fall back when John works a first finger inside him. "God— when you were playing— your hands— I'd have kicked them out if they would have stayed any longer."

Sherlock chuckles. "I'm sure you would have found some polite way to make them go— John."

John adds a second finger, which makes Sherlock moan. God, he could get drunk on that sound only.

"Fine, maybe— but don't tell me that you didn't think about it all evening too."

Sherlock squirms, hips slightly lifting off the bed in an attempt to get more of John's finger inside him. "I— yes, I did—"

John smiles, leaving a trail of wet kisses down Sherlock's neck. His pale, long, perfect neck. "You did what, love?" he encourages him, wanting to hear it. He knows that that kind of talk isn't Sherlock's _forte_ , especially when his wonderful brain of his has a hard time turning itself off for a moment.

"—think about you— this. Since you put your hands on me at dinner."

"Tell me, tell me how you've imagined it."

"You— behind me— you know— hard, so hard I would loose my mind. All evening, John— all evening I thought and I couldn't stop and— oh— _please_!" 

John swallows. Jesus. "All right, all right, turn over."

Sherlock does so, going on all fours as John picks up the lube again and coats his cock with it. He is so hard that when he finally pushes in, he believes for a moment that he might just loose control. Under him, Sherlock moans, pleading for more, and John pushes further, and further until his balls meet with Sherlock buttocks.

"Wait," Sherlock whispers, and so John does, giving him time to adjust properly.

Finally, _finally_ Sherlock grunts, giving John permission to move. He leans over Sherlock's back, enlacing their fingers together, and rolls his hips as gently as possible. John knows he won't last, Sherlock being hot and tight and simply exquisite. Heavenly, really.

"Is this— this like what you've imagined?"

"Yes." Sherlock's voice his barely a whisper. "Now— John, now—"

John doesn't need to be asked twice, as he grabs him by the hips, starting to thrust in earnest. There is no more talking: Sherlock is pushing himself on John so hard that he grabs the headboard, and the room fills in with the sound of the wooden frame thumping against the wall and skin-to-skin slapping. Sherlock is moaning John's name, his fist flying over his own cock, desperate to touch himself, and it only makes John pound harder, wanting to bring him there, to make him—

"Come, come on— Sherlock—"

"Ah— _John_ — ah, ah—"

Sherlock starts coming, his whole body shaking, the muscles clenching around John who is vaguely grunting encouraging words he does not even register himself. Sherlock deserves it all— the love, the commitment, the orgasms ( _all_ the orgasms) — John is close, so, so close, it only takes him a couple more thrusts before the orgasm hits him and he starts spilling himself in Sherlock.

It takes several more seconds before he realizes that he has not reached some kind of elevated spiritual place, but is in fact still in their bedroom, heavily breathing and lying on top of Sherlock's back.

He pulls himself out and slides off, taking Sherlock in his arms. He swipes his thumb across Sherlock's forehead, taking out the sweaty curls off his eyes, before wiping the wetness away from his cheeks. That is another thing John adores about Sherlock, when he cries after a particularly intense orgasm, even if Sherlock think it's silly.

Sherlock leans away to retrieve a flannel and proceeds to clean himself, and that's when John catches sight of his hand, bloodied at the knuckles.

"Christ, Sherlock, did you punch a hole through the wall?"

He is worried, of course, but Sherlock only chuckles and kisses him softly. "No, but I probably scratched it a bit. Mrs. Hudson definitely heard that."

"Mmh, maybe not, she was so pissed she's probably dead asleep right now."

"Oh, and certainly turning in her grave with all the noise we've just made."

John laughs. "That's not… how you use that expression."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. John, once again, looks at the reddened hand.

"Don't worry, I'll let you have a look at it later if you want to."

"You better," John growls jokingly, reaching for the duvet and covering them both.

Yes, they definitely deserve all of this.

 


	12. Winter Wonderland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They follow a suspect through Hyde Park's Winter Wonderland. Sherlock reflects on his relationship with John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be suuuper romantic but it kind of ended... angsty a bit? I therefore announce that everything will be made all right in tomorrow's ficlet.

 

It is absolutely impossible to discern the suspect in this kind of crowd. They have to go higher.

"The big wheel?" John suggests.

No, too high. They could get stuck on it even if they spotted him. Sherlock does not bother to answer. He has to find a solution quickly, or this could turn disastrous. Beside him, he hears John's heavy breathing. Adrenaline has kicked in already. Good. They will need it.

They had lost the suspect down Grosvenor St., and he had been clever enough to hide himself in the crowd of Hyde Park's Winter Wonderland. He had a gun, as Sherlock knew from their first encounter barely minutes ago, and is definitely unstable enough to use it. Lestrade's men are at the gates but of no use right now. They are on their own, but again, they make a good team.

"The carousel," John says, catching his breath, and Sherlock feels that he could kiss him on the spot. ( _Yes!)_

They make it just in time for the next ride, as Sherlock elbows another couple so they can take there place. Can they just see that they're currently doing something important? Obviously no one would fight over a place on this stupid plastic-turning-horse-attraction. John says nothing, probably too concentrated on the crowd to notice Sherlock's utter lack of tact.

"Get on the horse," John says, looking above Sherlock's shoulder.

Wait. What? "Why don't _you_ get on the horse?"

"Because you're taller, and that way you'll be able to see higher than me!"

"But if you get on it you'll be higher too and we will both be able to look out for—"

"For the love of God just get on the horse!"

Sherlock sighs, and looks at the other people on the carousel. He is relieved to see that they are not the only couple there, even though the majority is composed of parents with children. But shouting and arguing might bright some suspicion upon them, and so, without much dignity, he climbs on the horse, feeling particularly stupid.

John smiles. Sherlock rolls his eyes. The carousel is slow enough that he can get a good look at the crowd. It's not one of the busiest days at the Park, he knows, since it's a Thursday and it's definitely getting colder by the minute. The couple in front of them is loudly kissing. (She is a newly graduated engineer. He is a cook. Together for two months, but already engaged, that much is obvious.) There is a child crying in the crowd. (She dropped her hot chocolate on the ground.) Another couple is taking a selfie in front of some glass sculpture. (He broke her camera, and is taking her to the Wonderland as an apology.) A second thought. (Is there something wrong about _his_ couple?) Everything is a bit distracting and it's making him feel dizzy: instead, he focuses on John. John John John John. John who is subconsciously stroking the knuckles of his hand, the one Sherlock is holding the pole with, also the one that got bruised yesterday. (He still feels guilty about that. Why?)

When John realizes that he's looking at him, he leans in for a kiss. Sherlock hums: usually they don't show physical affection while actively working on a case, but again, they are indeed trying to act as naturally as possible right now.

"I love you," John whispers, and Sherlock quirks an eyebrow. It is not as if he has not heard it before, after all, but they _are_ currently working.

"Right now?"

"Always," John says with a smile, and Sherlock laughs.

"You know what I meant. But I do too."

John hums, still toying with Sherlock's hand, and keeps on looking at the people around them. They are on their third turn now, and if it keeps on going they might not be able to find their suspect at all. Yet Sherlock's attention is once again redirected to John, whose face is positively glowing under the turning lights. He wants to ask why John feels the constant need to reaffirm that statement, other than it sounds nice, and maybe that's just it: maybe it's because he knows Sherlock's constant need to have it reaffirmed to him. He smiles to himself, impossibly trying to conceal his own love for John.

It doesn't work like that, Sherlock tells himself, it's not something he can switch on and off depending if they are on a case or not. As stupidly sappy as it sounds, it's something that's part of him, whether he wants it or not, and not only when it's convienient. He opens his mouth. Is this something he is supposed to tell John? Would that be something John would want to hear? Sherlock knows he is not the most romantic partner, and John _likes_ romance. Wouldn't he get bored, after a while? Panic starts creeping in. What if it's not enough? What if what he has to offer is not enough?

Sherlock opens his mouth. Surely he needs to tell John about this. (Reassurance, hopefully.) He thinks about how he could phrase it without sounding overly dramatic. He shakes his head.

"John, I—"

But John is not looking. John's attention is elsewhere, on a specific spot in the crowd. Sherlock's heart jumps in his chest, remembering what they were doing in the first place. (Gun. Suspect.) Before he can get off that _goddamned_ plastic horse-thing, John is already dashing meters ahead of him. Without even thinking, Sherlock starts running.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please know that I'm currently in the craziest week of December due to exams, so I might not respect the one ficlet/day update, but I will write them all and I will try hard to update every day. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, as always, and thank you for the kudos, comments and bookmarks you leave, they make me utterly happy. <3


	13. In front of the fire / Pine-scented

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is doubting himself. Good thing that drunk-John is the world's ultimate sap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is brought to you by my #1 sponsor, a.k.a Procrastination.
> 
> Enjoy the Fluff. (Yes, with a big F.)

John stumbles on the stairs and feels Sherlock's hand in his back to help him get his balance back.

"Fuuuck, that was close!" he says as he steps on the landing, getting his coat off in one swift motion.

Sherlock giggles, struggling with his scarf, and John decides to help him since it was him who tied it up in the first place, as they were leaving the pub. Lestrade had invited them for the Yard's Christmas party, John had accepted and Sherlock had decided to trail along since there was probably nothing more interesting to do at home (since burning holes in John's jumpers had been totally out of the question). John also promised that he would let Sherlock deduce people for him, as long as he would speak low enough so only he could hear him.

What John had not planned on was getting sloshed, and was even more surprised to see Sherlock hammering down shooter after shooter. Damned be Lestrade and his never-ending imagination regarding drinking games. John decided that it was a good time to leave when Sherlock started yelling at some young man that _making doe-eyes at his boyfriend was a good idea if one wanted to get killed_ , and that he surely knew how to _hide a body so that no one could find it who-was-he-taking-him-for-thank-you-very-much_.

"C'mere, luv," John says, helping Sherlock with the scarf. He angles himself for Sherlock's lips but misses, kissing him on the corner of his mouth instead. (Oops.)

"Why do you always call me that?" Sherlock asks.

"What? Luv? 'S a pet name."

Sherlock hums, visibly not bothered to reply, and takes off his coat. John opens the door to 221b, and for a moment wonders if he has not stepped in the wrong flat. Candles. Candles every-fucking-where. He nearly gags when the strong smell of pine reaches the staircase.

"What the— Sherlock?"

Sherlock is behind him, and John can hear him fidgeting with the corner of his shirt. "Mrs. H! I texted her not to do it tonight— erhm, it was supposed to be a surprise… I didn't plan that we would be… well, like this."

"For me?"

Sherlock frowns. "No John, for the elf that lives with us. Of course it's meant for you."

He goes to light up the fire. John tries to wrap his head around the current state of their flat. Wait… So Sherlock had planned a surprise for him with Mrs. Hudson, who went up to their living room to apparently light up… forty-six pine-scented candles while they were gone? John giggles: it's incredibly crazy and endearing at the same time, even if he they might not be able to get rid of the smell for the next few years.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Sherlock's shoulder shaking. (Fuck.)

"No no no no _no_! I wasn't— I'm not laughing at that! I like it!"

"You don't have to pretend, John." Sherlock's voice is forced, and it rips John's heart in half.

He gets in closer and sits on the carpet in front of the fireplace. "Look at me."

Sherlock shakes his head. " _Look_ at me!" John orders. He needs to know. Whatever is bothering Sherlock he _needs_ to know, goddamnit!

Sherlock finally concedes and sits down in front of John. They are close, even if they are both leaning against their respective armchairs. John could straighten his legs and touch Sherlock's, but he decides against it. (Bloody hell, concentrate for half-a-second, Watson!) It's hard. He had not planned on having serious discussion while having his blood thinned with a considerable amount of alcohol. But he also knows thatSherlock is usually more keen to express in actual words whatever his brain of his is thinking when he's under influence.

"What's going on?" he asks, his voice coming out as a gently whisper as he leans towards Sherlock, who seems to hesitate. (Please, please tell me.)

"It's not— important."

"Bullocks!" (Please, please, please, please!)

"Do you know that your usage of swear words nearly triples when you're drunk?"

"Do you know that your tactics to change the subject don't work with me?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. John wants to kiss him. He leans in. (Not now! — Oh, come on! — Focus!) He leans back.

"Yesterday," Sherlock begins, and John lets him talk, "when you said _always_ — did you really mean it?"

What? How? Why?! He hears the mechanics of his brain grinding trying to understand why Sherlock is asking him right now.

"Do you doubt me?" he says before he can take it back. (Not like that, Watson, not like that!)

Sherlock bites his bottom lip — he does that when he's drinking — and avoids John's eyes. "Not you. Me."

"Okay, I see… No, wait, what?"

Sherlock hesitates again. "It's just that— yesterday, there was a couple kissing in front of us, and then another one taking pictures in the crowd, and he broke her camera so it was a way to apologize, really, and with all the people there— today at the pub with Lestrade's date and that man that kept on flirting with you— I don't know— don't you see?"

John puts his hand on Sherlock's knee, trying to calm him down before he goes on hyperventilating or something. "Sherlock… I really don't follow you right now."

"Do you think there's something wrong about us?"

 

Ah.

 

 

Okay.

 

 

Uhm.

 

 

"No?" John tries, and it's the absolute truth.

"Don't lie, John. You know I'm not normal. This is not normal. I'm not romantic and all that, and you like romance and— and all that."

John breathes in. Thoughts running everywhere. He tries to catch them. (The carousel. The suspect that John caught before Sherlock. The drinking. The jealously. The pet name. The fifty-six pine-scented candles smothering the air in the flat.)

"Sherlock— luv— I don't think we're normal, no. But then again, I've had normal, and normal is fucking _boring_." He kneels in front of Sherlock, taking his head between his hand, stroking his cheeks with his thumbs. "And about you romance… The thing is— Sherlock, is that you're… well… you're romantic _all_ the time. In your own crazy mad way but it's true, you are, even you don't know it."

Sherlock frowns. John wants to sigh and laugh at the same time. Proof. Right, Sherlock needs proof.

"Uh, for example, when you make tea for me: that's romantic. Don't look at me like that, I'm telling you it is! And— when you read to me about bees, that's romantic, right there! See?! When you play the violin when I'm having a nightmare, when you say you're cold just so we can take a bath together — yeah of course I know you git — when you get jealous on other people when they flirt with me… that's actually a bit creepy but again, also very very hot."

Sherlock smiles. Good! Good! Good!

"When you take me to dinner after a case, and — Oh! Cases, you taking me on cases is the most _fucking_ romantic thing in the world. When you lift that police tape for me to walk under, that's like pulling me a chair at a bloody five-stars restaurant."

"Really?"

"Of course, luv… And buying three hundred pine-scented candles, that's the nicest thing anyone has done for me, like… ever. So when I say you, Sherlock Holmes, are a romantic, and that you make me goddamn happy all the time, would you believe me right now?"

Sherlock nods, and his eyes are a bit wet, and John's eyes feel a bit wet too, so to deal with that he decides to kiss Sherlock, because _why the hell not_?

"And when you kiss me, Sherlock, when you touch me, when you take me to bed—"

"You find sex… romantic?"

John kisses him again. "Making love sure is."

Sherlock barks a laugh, probably because of John's choice of words, and John doesn't care because that's it, that laugh right there is every-fucking-thing he ever wanted.

And so John decides that he'll show him, if he doesn't believe him he'll show him, and just like that he starts peeling the clothes off Sherlock's body, letting him glow under the fire's and the candles' light, tracing his lips all over him, imprinting the words on every inch of his skin in soft murmurs as they both come apart and back together again.

( _Always. Always. Always._ )

 


	14. Elf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something strange happens at 221b, while Sherlock and John are both hungover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just finished my essay I have to hand in tomorrow so I'm glad I had time to write this tonight! Also, the style gets a bit funny, but Sherlock and I are currently pretty much in the same state (not that I'm hungover, just mentally exhausted...).  
> Good luck for anyone who still has exams to pass and papers to hand in! <3

A door, somewhere, somehow, opens and Sherlock knows that his head has just ripped in half. 

_????????????????_

Sound: pain. Light: pain. Head: pain. 

_????????????????_

A leg. An arm around him. John's arm. John.

       Good.

"Oh, boys, I never thought those scented candles would smell so strong."

       Mrs. Hudson.

Nose: sticking in a forest's butt, obviously, nothing on Earth could smell like that.

Sherlock opens his eyes, one after the other. He's on the sofa. With John. They both fit on it, somehow. There is a pillow under John's head. Sherlock's back is stiff. Sherlock's neck is stiff. Everything, stiff stiff stiff. (Oops! He hopes Mrs. H. won't notice that.) The small blanket that's usually on John's armchair somehow manages to cover them both.

"You camped out on the sofa, then?"

Sherlock manages a grunt.

"You're only young once, dear! Don't worry, I'm not looking, just leaving the tray here. Did you come back late yesterday? I didn't hear anyone when I came back from playing bridge. Mrs. Patil talks so much. You should—"

John moves slightly and grunts.

"All right, all right, I'll let you get dressed. You both look terrible, by the way."

The door rattles again and it's loud and painful and then she's gone. Sherlock slides away from John's arm and makes his way towards the bathroom, with the need to relieve himself. God, getting drunk was a very bad idea. Does he even remember what happened yesterday?

Sherlock shakes his head, says hello to the elf, lifts off the toilet's seat, and—

_Elf???_

He goes back to the living room. Is he still drunk? Having a nightmare or something? No. Everything seems tangible. (Trust your senses.)

"John, there's an elf in our bathroom."

John is sitting on the edge of the sofa, hands rubbing his eyes. "What?"

"There's. An. Elf. In. Our. Bathroom."

John looks at him. Blinks. Rubs his eyes again. Stands up. Follows Sherlock to the bathroom.

"What the fuck?"

It is indeed an elf. A stuffed toy, like the ones parents would get their kids as a crappy gift on Christmas. An elf.

"Is it safe?" John asks.

Sherlock leans in. No camera. No bomb. Seems totally normal, but for its unnerving smile.

"Yes. Please take it out, it's creepy."

"Creepy?"

"You heard me perfectly well the first time, John."

John giggles. "Do you have elf-phobia or something like that?"

"No, just take it out!"

John laughs harder, and takes the elf out of the bathroom. They proceed to take a shower, during which they fall in a comfortable silence, mostly because each sound it ten thousand times worsened by their respective headaches. Sherlock remembers everything about last night, even the highly embarrassing bits where he had an existential crisis about his relationship with John. Ridiculous. Alcohol makes him highly emotional. He tells himself to never touch it again. He also remembers waking up in the middle of the night, probably to lie down on the sofa instead of sleeping the whole night on the floor. Something about waking up later too, but it's vague and distant and he doesn't remember. And after that, well, it's this morning. So he really doesn't know how an elf ended up in their bathroom. There are different plausible hypotheses, of course, and he _will_ investigate.

They finishing washing themselves, shaving and dressing up, and then Sherlock is once again confronted to the elf, which is now sitting on the kitchen's table. Sitting down, he turns the toy over and over again, looking at it from any possible angle, which definitely doesn't provide any clue to why it found its way to their flat. Are hangovers making him slower too, now? Maybe Lestrade and the Yard did a prank on them. But why? What for? Did _he_ get the elf in the middle of the night? No, all the stores were closed between then and this morning. Also, he would have had to wander the street totally naked, unless he undressed again when he got back, which is highly improbable. His stomach sinks. Is it a threat, then? Someone _had_ gone up their flats at some point during the night while they were dead asleep.

John hands him a pill and a glass of water, which he swallows down without question. Footsteps up the stairs. Clinking. Umbrella.

        Ugh.

"Did a forest flatulate in here?"

"Mycroft," Sherlock and John say at the same time.

"Hello brother dear, and John. You both look terrible. Not a bit too old to party like teenagers?"

"Do shut up, _brother dear_. No— before that, tell me why an elf broke into our bathroom in the middle of the night?"

Mycroft quirks an eyebrow. "Is this some kind of riddle?" he says, before seeing the elf on the table. "Ah. Unfortunately, I am not interested in your drunken shenanigans. I'm here on much more urgent matter."

Mycroft is not behind the elf, then. This is getting rather interesting.

"A case?" John asks, visibly hopeful.

"No, no." Mycroft raises his umbrella, looking at the tip of it as if it is the most interesting thing in the room. Sherlock wants to barf. "Family matters, of course."

Sherlock stands up, suddenly more interested in the contents of the fridge than the current conversation. John, finishing a biscuit, makes a humming sound.

"Yes. As you already know, our parents have invited the three of us at the cottage for Christmas."

Sherlock grunts.

"Do not worry, brother dear, I bargained in your favor. You're both free from family obligations on both the 24th and 25th of this month, as long as you are there for dinner on the 23rd. You are, of course, invited to stay over the night."

Sherlock frowns. Why on Earth Mycroft would arrange something like that? "And what do you get out of this?"

"Sherlock," John warns him, but he seems also curious to know the answer to that question.

Mycroft shrugs, putting his umbrella down. "Let's just say that it is my gift this year. Maybe next time I have some work for you you'll be more keen to accept."

"Ah, I see. It's more a bargain than a gift, then."

"Or maybe it's your gift to me," Mycroft answers back, with a smile that's trying to be mysterious. "Gentlemen," he adds, and on that, he finds his way to the door.

Sherlock sighs, and looks at John, who is now toying with the elf.

"Let's open the windows, I don't want my cause of death to read _smothered by the smell of pine_ ," he says.

How on Earth did he think that fourteen pine-scented candles were a good idea? No, definitely not touching a drop of alcohol ever, ever, ever again.

"Good idea. We can take a walk after that. A bit of fresh air would be good."

Sherlock nods in agreement and John leaves the kitchen for the living room. Just as Sherlock moves to follow him, his eyes fall on the toy that looks more like Satan's minion than Santa's.

"I hate you," he mouths to it, and instantly knows that the feeling is mutual.

On that, Sherlock flees the room.


	15. The Case of the Frozen Corpse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They solve a case, come home, and share a bath. A good day indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like it, I didn't have much time to spend on it since I have other stuff to do, but the next few ones should be longer!

John had a good day. A very, very good day. It's started early when Lestrade had called about a case: an old butcher had been found dead, possibly from hypothermia, in his store's walk-in freezer. The poor man could have closed the door behind him and locked it from the outside without knowing he was doing so, but John had successfully diagnosed that he had been poisoned and was already dead by the time he would have died from hypothermia. It prevented the case (or at least the non-official one they were leading) from stalling while waiting for the autopsy results, and after having a look at the store's employee list, Sherlock concluded that the primary suspect was the old man's nephew, who would legally inherit the store if he were to pass away. It lead to a great deal of waiting in the cold (although John had been luckier than Sherlock, who stood under the freezing rain for over half-an-hour), then to a chase across half of London, when John finally put a stop to it by pulling the young man by his hoodie, throwing him against a wall and handling him until the Yard decided to show up.

The case was only a three, but at least justice had been restored, Lestrade's honor had been saved, etc. etc. etc., and John had gotten a good excuse to make Sherlock share a bath with him.

"Doctor's order," he says when they get home, "we don't want to add names on the list of frozen corpses the Yard found today."

Since it is hard to argue with that logic, Sherlock quickly strips off and starts running the water. He always like his water too hot in John's opinion, but right now, John really doesn't care nor wants to argue about it. Instead, he takes a candle and lights it. Sherlock stares in horror.

"Don't worry, it's unscented," John reassures him.

Neither of them could probably smell the scent of pine ever again without gagging. Ah well, John thinks to himself, it will be probably a funny story to tell once they're old and grey. He smiles to himself while they proceed to get in the bath, when there's enough water and bubbles to make everyone (Sherlock) happy.

The water is very, very hot, especially since they've been in the cold for so long, but John really _can't_ complain right now. Sherlock gets in and lies down against John's chest, which makes it awkward a bit because then the tub is not long enough to fit his overly long legs. One day, they'll have to get a bigger bath. Or get a bigger place to put in a bigger bath.

Sherlock recalls out loud the salient points of the case, how he figured out that the nephew was indeed the killer, how it resembled the one with the serial killer they solved last year (the difference being that limbs have been cut and freezes, instead of the whole body), and how wonderfully John had intervened at the right moment—

"You're amazing," Sherlock says, and John grins.

Good day indeed. "I know."

"Good. You should. I don't remind you often enough."

Is Sherlock doubting himself again? John crosses an arm around Sherlock's shoulders and kisses him on top of his head.

"That's not true. Just the fact that I put up with you every day is a constant reminder of how amazing I am," he laughs, hoping that Sherlock will get the clue.

"True," Sherlock says, and John hears him smiling even if he can't see him.

Humming, John unwraps his arm and starts massaging Sherlock's scalp.

" _Not_ the hair!"

"Oh come on, you're surely not going out again tonight. We could order in tonight, if you want to."

Sherlock answers with a vaguely positive grunt, and so John puts his hand in his curls again. God, does he love Sherlock's hair. And he definitely _loves_ the sounds Sherlock is making when his scalp is being massaged. Maybe they should go at some sort of spa, one day, and get one of those couple's massages. John giggles at the thought of Sherlock at a spa, in one of these enormous white and fluffy robes, letting someone — probably a man, a very handsome young man — touch his skin in all those places. No, John thinks, no spa for them. He is well enough able to handle Sherlock's massage needs by himself.

Sherlock moans, and it instantly brings John back to reality. He notices that he's starting to get hard against Sherlock's back, and that Sherlock himself is already there. John moves his hand near Sherlock's erection.

A few minutes later, Sherlock, panting, reminds John how _truly amazing he is_.

John knows.


	16. Stuck at home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being stuck at home is the perfect recipe for a very dull day. Or is it?

During the night, rain had stopped and snow had started falling, leaving a good inch of ice on the ground, under several more of snow. That did not discourage Sherlock from attempting to get to Bart's, since Molly had called yesterday about a brain she was not using anymore for testing. It was seven years ago since the last time a snowstorm this big had hit London, Sherlock remembered: it had been simply impossible to get anywhere. Today was not different: there wasn't a single cab in sight, so he decided to go on foot, in spite of how long that would take. Unfortunately, there was an accident where his arse met with one hard patch of ice (although Sherlock argued that some kind of young kid had pushed him, he suspected that John knew perfectly well he slipped and fell), but since it led to some serious doctorly examination of said arse, the accident was maybe not so unfortunate at all.

His watch, left in the bathroom, is ticking 12:03 when he gets back in the bedroom, only wearing his red-wine dressing gown.

"Bad news?" John says, looking over the medical research he is currently reading. Ah, that's right, Sherlock remembers, John is attending some kind of conference on the 19th. Something about keeping up to date with the newest medical practices. Boring.

"Molly called. She couldn't get to Bart's either. I guess we're stuck in here. Dull."

He flops on the bed, rolling on his belly and inhaling whatever remains of John's scent on his own pillow. Maybe he can get to his Mind Palace long enough for the day to pass by. Or he could simply doze off for a few hours, but then he would not sleep all night and would be confronted with the same problem. So instead, he lies there, looking at John's concentrated face as he reads something about this new antibiotic. His chest feels strangely warm, which is usually what happens when he stares at John for too long. Or at all. God, he is so in love it should be embarrassing. Never in his wildest dreams he thought that the days where he would share a bed with John would come true. Instead, he rubs his nose in his pillow, and goes back to staring at John, who, after a few more minutes of reading, puts the document on the nightstand and lies down on his side, facing Sherlock.

John extends his hand and holds gently the side of Sherlock's face, circling his thumb around his cheekbones. They lie there, not talking, just breathing, for an impossibly short or long moment, Sherlock can't tell.

When John asks his question, it's a fairly simple one. "Do you want to get married?"

Sherlock's breath catches in his throat. John's thumb stops moving on his cheek. Did the whole world stop moving too, when he was not looking? "Right now or at all?"

"Right now. You said you were bored."

"So you're suggesting that we get married to keep me from _boredom_?"

John smiles. (John is perfect.) "Do you want to?"

It's not that he doesn't want to. He thought about it. Of course he thought about it. Sherlock simply assumed that it isn't something that John would be interested in. He remembers him tensing up when Mrs. Hudson had mentioned something about that, earlier this month. Marriage wasn't even something that _he_ would not be interested in. In Sherlock's opinion, when two people already lived together, did everything together, planned to retire together, marriage seemed entirely unnecessary. Paperwork. A boring and overly long ceremony that meant inviting both families and having to spend time with them. In his experience, loads of marriages ended with the murder of one of the two participants, which was the only feature of interest about the whole thing. And of course, he had spent most of his life aware of the legal technicality which prevented him of thinking of marriage even being an option. Not that he had anyone to tie the knot with in the first place. But all that was before John. Marrying John would be proof of the very scientific conclusion that Sherlock wants to spend the rest of his life with him, and that John wants it too. And Sherlock likes having proof.

"I— I— Are you _proposing_ to me right now?"

"No! Wait! I have to do this properly!" John gets up from the bed and runs his fingers through his hair, turning his back on him. Sherlock can see him thinking. He can hear him thinking. Still shocked, he sits on his heels, still on the bed, dressing gown wrapped around him, waiting for John to propose. He wants to laugh and to cry at the same time. What the _hell_ is happening? This was supposed to be a boring day at home, for God's sake!

John gets on one knee. The sight of it knocks Sherlock's breath out of him.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, marry me, if convenient. If inconvenient, marry me anyway."

Sherlock grins. "'Could be dangerous."

(It is, it truly is. Love is dangerous. Love is like John, danger itself, wrapped in a soft jumper. Doctor and soldier, healing and fighting at the same time. The uncanny paradox of the army doctor, who protects, and reminds Sherlock that he doesn't have to be alone, never again, if only he chooses to.)

"And you said danger," John says, "and here we are."

Sherlock chooses.

"Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes."

John leaps unto Sherlock, who closes his arms around him and falls back on the bed at the same time. The kiss that follows is passionate and fierce and dangerous and healing and protecting and even though they kissed like that thousand of times before, this one is so many things at the same time that Sherlock never wants it to end.

John is a miracle, a coincidence that slipped through the universe's constant attentiveness, he is the improbable when the impossible has been eliminated, the crack in the lense, the virus in the data, the advantage in _caring_.

And above all, John is his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I SWEAR to God I did not plan this when I started writing both this collection and this ficlet. I wanted this to be pretty much free of any major events beside the usual things that happen at Christmas, but apparently both Sherlock and John had a different idea about how things should go. They kind of went their own way in this ficlet and I followed them. Well, what can I do?!


	17. Christmas telly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of telly watching leads to a snog session.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't proofread this so sorry about any mistakes still in there (and the mistakes still in everything else I write, my English is far from perfect hahaha), but I'm a bit tired tonight for proofreading! Wanted to post it before midnight though, so I can keep up with one ficlet/a day.
> 
> Enjoy!

It was, without question, the best week in John Watson's life. Since Sherlock had said yes (God, he said _yes_ ), John had been on a little cloud, as if not part of this world anymore, and nothing on Earth could make him come back down, not when Sarah called, asking if he could work a shift at the clinic since there was a flu outbreak and Elizabeth was on maternity leave, not even when a six years-old threw up on his scrubs. Instead, he spent the day thinking about Sherlock's smile when he said yes, how he had snogged him senseless on the bed, how he had realized that he had no ring to give him and jokingly offered instead the Elf-toy that was sitting on his nightstand, which Sherlock accepted by rolling his eyes and kissing him some more. They spent the rest of the day discussing wedding ideas, before celebrating at Angelo's and having three rounds of Earth-shattering sex during the night.

So really nothing could make John angry today, not even the fact that he is coming home tired and smelling of vomit.

Sherlock is lying on the sofa, fingers tucked under his chin, sign that he is in his Mind Palace and not to be disturbed. Easier said than done.

"Go take a shower, John, you stink."

"Not kissing me hello, then?" John jokes, extending his hands in a clear invitation.

"Go shower!" Sherlock hisses, nose crumpled as he pushes John away with his feet.

John does as he is told, coming back to the living room clean and changed. Sherlock is now lying on his side, remote in hand, staring at the TV as he goes through the channels at an alarming speed.

"All right, move a bit, let me sit down."

Sherlock grunts and moves his head: the moment John sits down, Sherlock puts down his head in John's lap. He is now watching some documentary about a special type of fly that was discovered on a secluded island.

"Did you get anywhere with that brain?" John says, talking about the organ Sherlock had brought back from Bart's this morning.

Sherlock shrugs. "It's too soon to tell."

"All right, all right. I hope there won't be bits of it in the sink when I'll go in the kitchen, later."

"I wouldn't be so optimistic."

John laughs, knowing perfectly well that there was no way in the world their kitchen could stay clean for more than a few hours. It is all part of the deal, and he had accepted the deal. In fact, the deal had accepted _him_.

"You're in a good mood," Sherlock says, quirking an eyebrow.

John hums. "Well, I just got engaged."

"Really?"

"I bloody hope you haven't, since you're the one I'm engaged to."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but John can definitely see a smile starting to curl up on his face. "Strange. I wasn't notified." he says, wiggling his way to sit in John's lap.

John pretends to ignore Sherlock and watches the end credits to the documentary, when another movie, this time much more in spirit with the season, starts playing. Sherlock places a chaste kiss on the corner of John's mouth, probably just to get his attention. John stares at the screen, without much success. He knows that Sherlock is much more stubborned than he his, but he doesn't plan on giving in on the first occasion. Instead, he thinks about what they had discussed the day before, in bed, giggling about the wedding like two bloody teenagers. Sherlock wanted small, John wanted extraordinary, for Sherlock. They both agreed that one was not contrary to the other, and moved on to talk about the people they would invite. All their closest friends, and family, of course, which was surprisingly easy for John to convince Sherlock about. John had said no to the alarming number of doves that were meant to represent each day they had known each other, but agreed on getting the biggest chocolate cake they could possibly find. The rest of the day had been spent daydreaming about ideas that were growing crazier and crazier, until he suggested a wedding at a Cuban resort just to see how Mycroft would do under the heath, or if he would surprise them all and actually wear shorts. This had send Sherlock into a fit of laughter from which he never recovered, since John had used the opportunity to slip his hand under the covers. They still had not decided on a date.

Sherlock is now placing wet kisses just under John's jaw, and sucking at the skin there. John totally oblivious to the movie he had convinced himself to watch is in fact very aware of Sherlock's lips working at his neck, subconsciously tilting his head on the side to give him more space. He hums.

"I'm trying to watch that movie, Sherlock," he warns, gasping when the only answer that comes is Sherlock's hand holding his chin, gently placing his thumb on John's lips, which he kisses in a reflex.

"For God's sake," John complains, and suddenly Sherlock leaves his neck and moves to straddle both of John's legs between his own, sitting on him and now fully blocking his view to the TV.

Sherlock takes John's head between his hands and kisses him hungrily, and John kisses back, because how on Earth could he not. Sherlock's mouth is soft, warm, John knows it better than anything else in the world, and keeps on kissing until seconds become minutes. Knows Sherlock better than anything else in the world. And he's marrying the man. He smiles against Sherlock's lips, who kisses back one more time before putting his forehead against John's.

"I know, John. I'm happy too."

John drowns for a moment in Sherlock's blue eyes, before he moves away.

"Is that the movie with the elf?"

John shakes his head in negation and chuckles. "What do you have against elves?"

"Nothing," he says, taking the blanket that was on the back of the sofa and covering them both, as he puts his head on John's shoulder, "let's see what's this about and I'll tell you what you've missed. Romantic comedies are terribly predictable."

John takes Sherlock's hand in his own, wanting to say about how _they_ are also terribly predictable, but that would only make him roll his eyes and huff in negation. Instead, John forgets about the movie, concentrating on Sherlock's warmth and voice as he rambles about how the bloke and the lady first met, how it was love at first sight and angels and pink fluffy hearts flowing everywhere and John thinks that they should get takeaway later so that they won't have to deal with the sink-problem right away.


	18. Favorite tradition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys go to see the Nutcracker for a second year in a row, and John surprises Sherlock with another kind of special tradition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seeing the prompt and that it would fall on this particular day of the week, I could not resist...
> 
> This may be a bit crackish, sorry in advance! (Or not ;) )

It is the second year in a row that they go to see the Nutcracker at the Royal Opera House and Sherlock can barely contain himself as John opens the cab's door. Both of them are impeccably dressed in their finest suits, John literally glowing under the theater's enormous chandelier in the hall. He takes his hand as they go to register for their tickets, walking through the crowd as if they were the two most important people on the floor. Some heads turn as they walk by: they do have some kind of celebrity status, after all, as the press keeps on nagging them, but this time, Sherlock doesn't mind. For the first time in his life, he wants to parade around. _Look, everyone, this handsome man right here is a war hero andthe best doctor in this whole country, well — he asked me to marry him,_ he wants to say. _Yes, of all people on this planet, John Watson chose me! Me! So make way for my fiancé, or I'll just step on your feet until you do._

John squeezes his hand a bit harder. "What are you thinking about?"

"That I'm lucky," Sherlock says, as honestly as he can.

John looks at him (are there _actual_ stars in his eyes?). "I thought you didn't believe in luck."

Sherlock opens his mouth, before closing it again. Right. Well, that's inconvenient. What is it, if not luck then? A coincidence, surely, but as Mycroft says, the universe is rarely so lazy. A plan by some kind of all-mighty deity? No, he doesn't believe in that either.

Beside him, John laughs, clearly understanding that he has created a breech in Sherlock's mind. "Come on, let's get our seats."

They are seated in one of the balcony boxes, Sherlock behind John, with only another couple on their right. "Behave yourself," John warns him, as if he is going to jump on him right here and there.

Finally, the music starts playing and the first dancers enter the scene. Tchaikovsky is genius, Sherlock thinks, his music transcending every possible emotion. It's one of the only late-Romantics he can stand, and his ballets are definitely sublime and dramatic. The dancers are excellent, the Nutcracker Prince does an impossibly powerful _jeté_ and the _pointe_ technic of the young woman is outstanding. He remembers to tell John about it once they're home tonight. They are currently watching the best ballet in the country, and cannot thank John enough for agreeing to go see it a second time, secretly hoping that it would become a Christmas tradition. He knows that John is not particularly fond of ballets — well, at least not as much as he is — and remembers to think of something to do later for him in return.

The couple next to them (young, rich parents, he wants to impress her, she is, in fact, not impressed) leaves at the break, and Sherlock nearly scoffs at them. Seriously! How can one show so little respect to Art? At least, it gives him the opportunity to move closer to John, taking the fancy stool he was sitting on and putting it down next to John, just over the balcony.

Just as the lights are going off for a second time, Sherlock notices something in the corner of his eyes. Could it be…? He reaches for John's trousers, subtly putting his finger in the fabric and tugging it a centimeter down to take a look.

The lights are completely off now, but Sherlock would recognize that shade of bright red even with his eyes closed.

His mouth falls as he takes away his finger, noticing the slight smile that made it's way on John's face, who is apparently watching the ballet. Right. The ballet. Sherlock tries to focus on it again, but is only aware of his mouth watering and _isn't it hot in here suddenly?_ Damn it, John! He knows, he _knows_ Sherlock can't resist those pants. That's exactly why every other pair got "accidentally" dirtied in an experiment, that first Monday, and therefore John had to walk around in those. In Sherlock's defense, it had been indeed an experiment, the hypothesis being that John would look wonderful in the red pants. The hypothesis was proven wrong: John looks _edible_ in his red pants. It was all part of a very scientific process, but since then John had had a little tradition of wearing those pants each Monday, for Sherlock, apparently.

Suddenly, everyone stands up to clap, and Sherlock nearly falls off his stool because of the shock. How long exactly was he in his mind palace?

He stays silent in the cab, and John notices it instantly. Usually he would go over every single detail of what they had seen, but this once he had no idea if the Sugar Plum Fairy's _pirouettes_ had been fast enough to follow the music, and he did not care at all.

"You all right?" John asks as they open the door on Baker Street.

_Yes_ , Sherlock wants to say, but by the time he would say it his mouth could instead be on John's, and the latter wins. He is already working on John's belt when he is kissed back, a hand finding its way in his hair, pulling gently, making his brain buzz with white noise.

He tugs down John's trousers to his thighs, revealing the red pants, and pushes him towards the wall. They stop kissing for a second as Sherlock tries to get both of John's legs in his arms to lift him against the wall, but he is far too distracted to manage to do it properly, and curses under his breath when John slips away.

"Not here, love, just—" John laughs, lips wonderfully swollen and pink, hair undone, and Sherlock kisses him again. "Just take me to bed, would you?"

He grins and nods, thinking of all the possible ways he is going to thank John for tonight.


	19. Traveling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is away at a medical conference and skypes with Sherlock when he's finally done with his day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A dialogue-only ficlet for you! Each time I write one it makes me so happy because I remember how my writing teacher said she hates dialogue. I will be forever petty about this.

_You have been successfully connected with_ Sherlock Holmes _(audio, video)…_

 

"Can you hear me, John?"

"…"

"John?"

"…"

"I can't hear you, there is probably something wrong with your connection."

"—lock —can —me?"

"SOMETHING'S. WRONG. WITH. YOUR. CONNECTION. JOHN."

"—know —I —wait."

 

_Your call has ended._

_You have been successfully connected with_ Sherlock Holmes _(audio, video)…_

 

"Sherlock, can you hear me now?"

"Yes."

"Can you see me too?"

"Obviously."

"Good. I can see you too— wait, is that my jumper?"

"No."

"It is! I didn't know you're wearing my jumpers when I'm not there—"

"It's because I don't."

"— oh, is that why there are holes in some of them? Are you wearing them while experimenting?"

"… Maybe."

"That's kind of sweet, actually— No, no! I take it back! Don't take it off!"

"As you wish."

"I miss you."

"You've only been gone for thirteen hours, and you'll be back in nineteen."

"And you've been counting."

"Right. Why are you smiling?"

"No reason at all. How was the case?"

"Mildly entertaining. Barely a five. Lestrade couldn't figure out why luminol showed traces of Parker's blood in the shower when most of it was in her garage. His hypothesis was that the killer somehow levitated through the walls and washed the blood off himself in the shower. Can you believe that?!"

"Well, I take for granted that Lestrade was wrong?"

"Of course he was wrong! The killer never entered the house: what the luminol showed in the shower was only Parker's menstrual discharge. It was recent enough for the chemical to show it."

"Mmh, genius."

"Hardly. How Lestrade did not think of that? Wasn't he married? To a _woman_? Isn't he supposed to be aware of that kind of stuff? Even _I_ know when Molly isn't to mess with."

"Really?"

"Of course, I won't forget the time she nearly broke an Erlenmeyer on my head when I suggested that she should take a relaxing weekend to a spa. Never doing _that_ again. Women should never be underestimated, John, they are able to achieve anything we do while bleeding and in pain. They could easily bring humanity to its downfall only if they wished to do so… Anyway, I found a lead to our primary suspect, it was her gym coach — huge man — who was madly in love with her and also a psychopath since he decided to kill her when he learned that she already had a boyfriend. I did find him at the gym—"

"Did you wait for the police?"

"Yes, yes. Lestrade was just behind, just like I promised you. There was a slight altercation and—"

"What? Are you injured?"

"I said nothing of the sort."

"Sherlock, don't lie to me. Not about this."

"I may have a small bump on my head, but I swear it's nothing bad. Lestrade had me check by the medics once they got there, can you believe that—"

"What did the medics say?"

" _Nothing_ , John, it was just a bump. He tried to punch me, punched the wall instead, my head hit the side of a treadmill."

"All right, I'll check it out tomorrow."

"If you wish to. So, as I was saying, Dalton — the gym coach — tried to throw a twenty pounds weight on the head of one of Lestrade's men, but ended up tackled to the floor by some random policeman. The one we solved the Wilson case with."

"Shepard."

"Probably, yes. Then the medics arrived, then more police cars, etc. etc., I filled some paperwork and Lestrade asked me to go drink a pint with him to celebrate."

"Did you go?"

"Of course _not_. He did come back to Baker Street though, and moped around talking about his ex, while saying he was only making sure I was not moping around since you were gone."

"Why would he say such a thing—"

" _I know_!"

"—when you're just walking around the flat in your pants and _my_ jumper."

"Shut up."

"Oi! But at least you got to go out today a bit, it's been a while since the last case."

"Indeed. Christmas time is awful in terms of crime, John. Everyone feels obligated to—"

"—be kind to each other and postpone their murders? Yeah, you say that each year, love."

"I don't."

"You do."

"I don't!"

"You might not remember it, but you definitely do."

"Whatever. How was your day?"

"Not much fun either. I went to all the conferences, was disturbed by nine text alerts in a row when _someone_ wanted medical expertise on a criminal case—"

"Sorry!"

"—I learned about some new stuff, it's pretty neat. As you know we'll soon have to find out an alternative to antibiotics, and the biochemists did show us some interesting new fields of research. These are mostly still ongoing studies, but it's good to know that there are options. Just because some people don't take their prescriptions seriously and stop the treatment when they start to feel well."

"Morons."

"Mmh, I wouldn't put it like that, but yes. I've met with loads of people, of course, so I'm a tad tired right now. Oh! Did I tell you I met Tanya Bedi?"

"… Who's that?"

"She's a friend from uni — well, not a friend-friend, but we knew each other. It's always fun to meet someone you've studied with for all those years."

"Mmh."

"We talked quite a lot and since we were going to the same conferences, we were around each other all day. She's an immunologist now, she works at the Royal in London, if you can believe that!"

"Mmh."

"Are you jealous?"

" _No_."

"Oh come on! She's married, she has three kids, she lives a very boring life in the suburbs and works crazy shifts. And she also congratulated me on the engagement."

"You told her?"

"Yeah. You don't mind, don't you? We were chatting and I got carried away. No one heard us, so I doubt it will come out in the papers before we get to tell everyone. Although she does want to meet Mr. Watson."

"Oh. Say that again."

"Mr. Watson?"

"Mmh."

"I thought we agreed on keeping our respective names."

"I know that. It doesn't mean I can't enjoy the sound of it."

"'Course, love, I'll keep that in mind. Haaa, I'm exhausted, I probably won't last long before going to bed."

"You _are_ in bed."

"You know what I mean. Are you tired? Did you eat properly?"

"No, and yes."

"Mmh."

"I had some time on my hands tonight so I made the thing you do with peas."

"Mmh."

"Mrs. Hudson checked on me a bit later, we had a cuppa, and that's pretty much it."

"Mmh."

"John, I— I miss you too."

"…"

"John?"

"…"

"Are you—?" 

"…"

"Goodnight, then, Dr. Holmes." 

 

_Your call has ended._


	20. Stocking stuffers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys do a bit of shopping and John has an idea about an important aspect of their engagement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is kind of short and definitely no proof-read, I still have quite a bit of study to do for my exam on Friday. Also, tomorrow's ficlet may not be posted tomorrow, because I want to do it properly and I also have like 5000 others things to do. I'll see what I can do!

They get home with bags and bags of food and provisions for the next few days, knowing that they will have to host a party on the 22nd (which Sherlock complained about definitely less since they had planned to announce their engagement then), and that most stores would be closed on Christmas. Counting on Mrs. Hudson would not be possible this year since she was leaving after the party to visit her sister for the Holidays.

They had been shopping all day, or at least since John got back in the first train in the morning. John needed new gloves, and Sherlock decided that he also absolutely needed three new shirts, a scarf and a pair of trousers, before convincing John to buy a better-looking-than-average jumper. They spent the next few hours buying Christmas presents for those that would be attending the party and the Holmeses, which got Sherlock complaining a whole lot more than when they were buying clothes. He knew that John liked having him while doing this kind of shopping because it was easy to deduce what everyone wanted to get as a present ( _seriously, how can't John work that out himself?_ ), but Sherlock really didn't care if Molly would enjoy more a romantic story about quirky girl #1 that meets perfect man after bad breakup or quirky girl #2 that meets perfect man while jogging in a park ( _#2, obviously, John, do keep up!_ ).

He is completely exhausted when he drops the bag on 221b's landing.

"Budge over," John grunts, just behind him, with approximately a hundred more bags he drops on the floor too. "God, what wouldn't I give for a massage, right now," he says, right hand on his right shoulder.

Interesting. Sherlock tucks a hand on the back of his neck, stretching it by the same occasion. "Shower?"

"Let's just put away whatever needs to go in the fridge and then definitely a shower."

They come back to the sitting room half-an-hour later, a lot less tense and a lot more satisfied, and start to unpack everything they bought, segregating the food from the presents from their own shopping. When it's done, it's already quite late, and Sherlock can only complain at the amount of wrapping they will have to do tomorrow. There is still one small bag to sort out, and he knows why the subconsciously kept that bag for the end. It's also what took them the more time to buy, since they had to chose properly and both be one-hundred percent sure of their choice.

"So, where should we keep it?" Sherlock says.

John smirks. "Actually, I thought of something."

He makes a questioning humming sound, but John is already in the sitting room, and when he joins him there, he can see him pulling two Christmas stockings from another bag they forgot behind them — well, that John purposefully forgot, visibly. But why the stockings? What has that to do with anything? They didn't have them last year, and Sherlock doesn't care that much about having even more pointless Christmas tradition around. Unless John is planning on stuffing them with After Eights, that is.

"Unbelievable!" John exclaims. "The great Sherlock Holmes, baffled."

"If you would simply explain yourself, I'm sure that—"

"Get the boxes."

He raises an eyebrow but does what he's told anyway, going back into the kitchen and taking the two small black boxes out of the back.

"Here," he says, giving them to John and sitting down in his armchair, starting to figure out what's on his mind.

"This one is yours." John puts one of the boxes in the first red stocking, hanging it on one side of the mantle. "And this one— is mine," he adds, doing the same thing on the other side. "There!"

It's a fairly good idea, Sherlock thinks, to not have them lying around, but there is one slight problem to it. Before he can mention it, John is leaning over the armchair, stealing him a kiss.

"Just like we agreed, no peaking until the wedding," John reminds him. "This way we'll be able to have them under our eyes most of the time— no cheating!"

Sherlock chuckles. "You know that we're not getting married before Christmas, right?"

"They can hang on there a bit after that. It's only in a little more than a month away, anyway."

"Right," Sherlock says, tugging John closer, "January 29th," he adds, remembering the date they chose.

"The 29th." John leans in and kisses him again.


	21. Longest night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock go dancing on the longest night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this is late and short, but I've been studying a lot and watched Call me by your name, which left me quite heartbroken... so yeah, this ficlet is... well, you'll see.

Pink and violet lights illuminated the tiles of the dance floor. It was his idea, to get them out of the flat a bit. Not that he particularly liked dancing, but Sherlock does, and that was enough for him. It's the longest night, after all: better make good use of it.

He remembers now, as they walk home, that they had a few drinks first at the bar. Sitting elbow to elbow, not talking. Just looking back at each other, from time to time, exchanging smiles. Violets lights reflecting on Sherlock's cheekbones. Peaceful, he would say, even with the loud music and the people around them.

They danced and drank way past midnight, not enough to be completely drunk but enough to feel warmth spreading in their chests and any worries being alleviated from their minds. They danced and they dance and they danced until they could not dance anymore, and decided to head home on foot, to share that forty minute walk in total silence as they were passing strangers hurrying in the dead of the night.

John is thinking about the bar, about dancing with Sherlock, and inevitably about that moment that happened a few days ago and how Sherlock said yes and how fucking lucky he is. Today, he had woken up beside a sleepy Sherlock who whispered _thirty-nine days_ in his ear, and if that isn't bliss…

He is looking forward to it, to everything: the party tomorrow when they'll announce it, the day after where they'll tell Sherlock's parents. He is looking forward to Christmas, hoping that Sherlock will like the gift he has for him, and for a few days later, when he'll get the chance to kiss him as the New Year starts, and for their wedding, and for the night of their wedding, and for the sex holiday they're planning after that, and for when they're old and grey and retired and and and and _and_.

Sherlock stops him in front of 221b's door, shivering a bit, curls slightly dampened by sweat, but he looks amazing, as always. He stands there, for a moment, and John wonders if he's going to kiss him. Instead, Sherlock wraps his arms around him, and John can feel him smelling his hair. He wants time to stop right now, right here.

After a moment, Sherlock speaks. "Promise you won't leave."

It's barely a whisper, but it doesn't surprise John very much. "I won't."

There is no end to it. Tonight is the longest night, and John promises _and_.


	22. Party time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a party at Baker Street and as they've decided before, it's the time to announce their engagement to everybody.

Sherlock is trying to be in his best mood, for John's sake. They've just served drinks, and he has taken this opportunity to hide away in the kitchen, looking from time to time to the company that is chatting away in the sitting room. Mrs. Hudson is in grand conversation with Harry, Sherlock can't hear what they are talking about but they seem to get on quite easily. Molly is visibly not leaving Lestrade's side, and going by how hard she is blushing and how loud Lestrade is laughing, Sherlock knows that they're likely to get news before New Year. Terribly predictive, all that, but at least both will stop complaining about their respective lack of romantic life.

He would like John to be with him, right now, because he doesn't know what to do, but John is at the door, thanking Mike for coming anyway, even if he can't stay for dinner since he's got other plans. Instead, Sherlock checks on the turkey for the fourth time in five minutes. Still cooking. Exactly what it's supposed to do. Good. Very good.

"Ah, Sherlock, there you are," John says, coming in the kitchen with Mrs. Hudson's glass for a re-fill, "come on, let's get you out of your hiding place," he adds with a smile, and Sherlock can't do anything but follow him as he walks towards the fireplace, handing Mrs. Hudson her second glass of wine.

John starts chatting, but Sherlock doesn't follow what he's saying. Instead, his eyes roam the room, unusually clean and full of people.

Suddenly, Molly is by his side. "Oh, you've kept it!" she says, smiling, pointing the elf that's sitting on the mantle.

"Yes, well John gave it to me when— wait, that was _you_?"

Molly's eyes widen, just as John turns to hear what she has to say. "I'm sorry, after you called I came in with it, but you were both already sleeping. I really needed to use the loo, I guess I just forgot it there afterwards."

So… on that drunken night with John, Molly came in and left the toy-elf behind?

"Wait, he called you?" John asks, frowning.

"Yes," Molly says, "he asked me to bring an elf by Baker Street."

Sherlock frowns. Is this true? "But… why?"

"I've no idea, you never explained yourself."

He shakes his head in frustration, but John barks a laugh. "The elf shall ever remain a mystery, then." He takes Sherlock's hand in his own, and glances at him. Right.

"Everyone!" John calls, until all heads are turned towards them. "We have a bit of an announcement to make."

Oh God. He knows, of course he knows, they were planning on doing this, but right now, with everybody looking at them, he's not so sure anymore. Then again, John must have felt him tense up because Sherlock can feel John's thumb circling on the back of his hand, something he usually does when they're talking to the press.

How silly, Sherlock curses himself internally. He has nothing to fear, it's only a bunch of people they already know. The decision has been taken long ago, it's not as if he is going to go back on it. John glances at him again, and finally, Sherlock nods.

"We're engaged," John simply says, and the room erupts in screams and gasps and squeals, as if they had just finished the countdown to the New Year.

"NO?! Really?!"

"Oh my god!"

"Wow!"

"Holy crap!"

Sherlock can only stare at Mrs. Hudson, who covered her mouth with her hand, eyes bright with tears. "Do you have a date, yet?"

"We were planning on January 29th," John answers, and Mrs. Hudson puts her hand on her forehead.

"That's in a month, you two won't be able to plan an entire wedding in a single month, oh dear God, you two are helpless, you already should be making calls and—"

"We just want something really simple, Mrs. Hudson, but if you want to help us with—"

"Of course I am going to help!"

"And you're all invited, of course. And we thought that Greg should be Sherlock's best man and Mike's mine, what do you think?"

Mike grins, patting John on his shoulder. "Hell yes, mate."

Lestrade — Greg — stares at Sherlock for a moment, visibly speechless. "I— of course, yes. Shit, Sherlock Holmes getting bloody married, I've seen it all!"

And he reaches in to pull Sherlock in one of those bear hugs, and as if that was the signal, everyone starts patting and hugging and giggling and Sherlock doesn't even know which words are whose and which hands are whose as he hugs back awkwardly but for that moment, for that single moment he dreaded and wished for, for that moment shared with all the people around him, caring about him, about them… it gets really hard not to believe in luck.


	23. Family visit / "Did you bring your gun?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys visit the Holmeses, and announce the good news.

"Did you bring your gun?"

"Why would I need my gun to your parent's place?"

Sherlock shrugs. "Given the news we're here to give them, I suspect we might want to be ready."

John quirks an eyebrow. Surely Sherlock is kidding. They have met with his parents tons (well, maybe not exactly tons) of times, and everything always went well. Very well, indeed. Why should they be opposed to their engagement?

"Aren't they supposed to be happy?" he asks, taking their bags out of the car.

Sherlock looks straight ahead at the small cottage, and shivers. "Exactly."

John wants to stop him, look him in the eye and say that everything is going to be all right. He knows that Sherlock isn't exactly close with his parents, but they are nice folks and surely they will be happy for him. He gets it, though, the stress of such an announcement, and remembers how tense Sherlock was, yesterday, when they talked to their friends. He knows that it's not because Sherlock is doubting their decision, but he isn't exactly the most comfortable around people in general. All right. It's only family, they can do this.

Sherlock swings the door open and John leaves bags and gifts in the hallway. Sound is coming from the kitchen, so they head there first, and a second later, both Mrs. And Mr. Holmes are hugging them warmly.

"Sherlock! John! We wondered if you had changed your plans!"

"No, no, Violet, we just had a little bit of trouble with… packing, that's all."

"Mum, let go, it's already embarrassing enough…"

"Don't talk to your old mother like that, and on Christmas! I hug my son as long as I want to!"

Whatever Sherlock is going to say next is muffled by his mother's smothering embrace. Mr. Holmes moves to the side, and John sees Mycroft seated at the kitchen table, visibly amused by the whole thing. He takes one look at John before his eyebrow lift dramatically. _He knows_ , John thinks, and stares back in a vaguely menacing way, trying to intimidate him enough into not telling the news before them. Mycroft sighs and roll his eyes, before returning to his newspaper. Good, at least that's settled.

Once Mrs. Holmes lets go of Sherlock, they help around a bit with what remains of the cooking (how on Earth are they supposed to eat everything?!) before moving to the sitting room with appetizers and a glass of gin.

Finally, Sherlock speaks. "Mum, Dad, erhm, we have something to tell you."

His slightly panicked tone provokes Mrs. Holmes' face to lose any trace of color. "Sherlock! Are you ill? Is it serious?"

"No, of course not, no! I—"

John wants to say something to calm everybody down, but before he can intervene, Mycroft speaks, taking the glass of gin out of his mother's hands. "You should probably put the glass down, Mother, and listen to the good news."

"As I was saying," Sherlock continues, shooting a deadly glance at Mycroft, "John and I— we're getting married."

There's a moment of silence (had they done something wrong?) and the first reaction that comes is from Mr. Holmes, who puts a hand on his mouth and surprisingly enough, hugs them both at the same time.

Mycroft is next, offering a quite sincere smile and congratulating them. John wonders if he is going to get the _Talk_ later. Probably.

"Violet, are you quite all right?" Mr. Holmes asks.

It takes a moment before John registers what's going on, but Mrs. Holmes appears to be hyperventilating. "Sherlock, get a paper bag," he asks before moving quickly towards her.

It takes a few minutes to calm her down enough, and it's certainly the first time that John sees the usually very confident Mrs. Holmes be in such a panicked state. Was it all a mistake?

"Oh, Sherlock," she finally says when she's able to speak again. "One of my sons! Getting married! Who would have believed that!" Once again, she hugs Sherlock so hard that John is afraid she might smother him.

"Mum…"

Her emotional side is gone in an instant. Instead, she gets up and looks at Mr. Holmes. "Dear god, champagne! We need champagne! We have to celebrate this! Oh my—"

She trails off to the kitchen, followed by her husband. John takes Sherlock's hand, squeezing it as they both sit down on the sofa. "That went… well," Sherlock says.

"See? No need for my gun, this time."

 

***

 

Johns thinks that he'll never be able to eat again. This is it. He will be able to live off this Christmas dinner.

"This was amazingly good, Violet," he says to her while getting his plate in the dishwasher. They're alone in the kitchen.

"Thank you, dear, I'm glad you liked it."

John smiles, but before he can go back to the dining room, Violet speaks to him again.

"Listen, John," she says, standing close, "Obviously I'm terribly happy for both of you, that you've decided to make it official and all. I was quite sure that you boys would never get married, so I've always considered you as family from the first time you showed up here with Sherlock. What you must know is that Holmeses never hurt each other. Am I understood?"

Her tone is relaxed, yet John can feel the threat under it, in an alarming Mycroftian fashion, the only difference being that she is in fact ten thousand times more terrifying than Mycroft could ever be. He clears his throat and nods.

"Of course."

She hugs him, as if nothing happened, and pats his cheeks. "Go to him, then, son."

Without needing to be asked twice, John smiles again, thanks her and leaves the kitchen. Whatever Mrs. Holmes might imply, John knows that he is never going to hurt Sherlock. Never.


	24. Holy night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas eve! Have some dialogue-only smut!

"I ate too much."

"Me too. Let's not move from the sofa."

"Good idea. Merry Christmas, love."

"It's not Christmas, John."

"Git. Merry Christmas Eve, then."

"Are you sure—"

"Stop it, we open the gifts _tomorrow_ , that's the rule."

"Rules are dull. You aren't."

"You're not going to win this. Haven't you already deduced your gift, anyway?"

"I can hardly deduce it when it doesn't physically exist in the flat, John."

"You'll see. I hope you'll like it."

"I hope you'll like mine."

"Hmm, you know I will."

"Give me a clue."

"It's supposed to be a surprise!"

"Give me a small clue, then."

"No. Never."

"Is it… a new Bunsen burner?"

"So you can burn more things? Nope."

"A new dressing gown!"

"You have enough of these already, love. Oh, that's nice. Hmm."

"… A restraining order for Mycroft?"

"I'm not even going to answer that."

"…"

"Bloody hell! I see what you're doing, Sherlock Holmes, you're not going to get to me that way!"

"Can't a man perform fellatio on his fiancé for totally selfless reasons?"

"Selfless reasons, my arse!"

"I don't see what you're talking about John."

"Oh, fuck."

"You love it, don't you?"

"I'm not going to tell you!"

"Oh! Is it something we can use in bed?"

"Ha! You wish. But no, it isn't."

"So, it isn't a Bunsen burner, a dressing gown, nor a restraining order…"

"Are you going to follow through or what?"

"Don't get all irritated on me, it doesn't suit you, John. Bedroom?"

"Bedroom. Drop the clothes on your way."

 

(…)

 

"All right, get on the bed, John."

"Bossy."

"Shut up."

"Oi— hmm, fine."

"Where were we? Oh, that's right."

"Jesus fucking Christ—"

"Language! On _Christmas_ , of all days, John!"

"It's not— CHRIST—mas, as you've just told me. So drop the act and do go on, I won't tell you anything anyway."

"Fine. Mmppff."

"Aaaah, shit. That's good. Oh god— you're so fucking— good at this."

"Hmmm."

"Jesus. Come here, love, come here, I'm too close— what do you want?"

"I—"

"Anything."

"You?"

"Fuck, yes, we can do that."

"Where's the—"

"Here, here."

"Oh, we'll have to buy some more soon."

"Noted. Come over here and kiss me."

"…"

"…"

"Jooohn, you're amazing."

"Aaah— I'm _not_ telling you!"

"All right? I'm not hurting you?"

"Relax, love, I'm fine. You can add a second one."

"For someone who can't answer one request you sure ask many."

"Jesus—"

"…"

"Aaah!"

"John?"

"For the _love of God_ , Sherlock, stop asking about the gift and fuck me already!"

"All right, all right! Should I—"

"Just lie down, will you?"

"Hmm."

"Here. Good. Aaaah— fine?"

"Sssss— Obviously!"

"Wait a second."

"Hmmmm. Oooh! John!"

"Argh— fucking hell— you feel so— _so_ good."

"I— you too—"

"Oh— fuck— yes, now— amazing—"

"This is— quite—"

"Jesus— I'm so close— already— oh yeah— touch me— fuck—"

"John—"

"Ah— _right_ there— you've got it— right right there—"

"I— yes—"

"Oh shit— I'm coming— oh shit fuck shit shit _shit_!"

"God— John, I—"

"Oh, fuck. You're amazing. Come on."

"You— ah, ah—"

"Come in me, love, I know you're close."

"Yes— I'm going to— ah—"

"Good, good, fuck, you're brilliant, you're—"

"John! _John!_ "

"—amazing."

"…"

"C'mere, love."

"John… a clue, maybe?"

"Hahaha, nope."

"I thought that endorphins would make you more suggestible. It was worth a try."

"Hmmm, you're definitely welcome to _try_ again later."

"Duly noted."

"Merry Christmas, by the way."

"It's not—"

"It's ten past midnight, so yes, definitely Christmas this time."

"Oh. Merry Christmas, then, John. I love you."

"I love you too. Merry Christmas, Sherlock."


	25. It's Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's gift time!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, you guys!

"All right, let's get up."

"But it's Christmas!"

John laughs, kissing Sherlock on his temple and rolling on his back. "And we have things to to. Come on, now!"

Really, he could not stay a minute longer in their bed without disastrous consequences on their plans for today — well, for his secret plans, certainly, regarding Sherlock's gift, which was waiting downstairs.

It actually takes them another hour to get out of bed (dressed, but only in pajamas) and done with breakfast, and by that time John is also quite curious about what _his_ gift is. There's an envelope on the mantel that bares his name, but he is no Sherlock Holmes, and his deductions were quite worthless in that regard. Not that he wants to guess before it's handed to him, anyway.

After a moment sitting around on the sofa, Sherlock checks his watch. "Right. My gift requires… going out, so we should probably begin with yours?"

"All right, it's downstairs, though, I'm going to fetch it."

John, going down the stairs, internally blesses Mrs. Hudson for letting him keep the gift downstairs for a day, knowing that the shelter would be closed on Christmas. "C'mere, we're going upstairs now."

He shows her the way upstairs, opening the door to 221b, to Sherlock who is still sitting on the sofa, his brow slightly furrowed.

"That's a… dog," he finally says, before getting on his knees to pet her.

John laughs. "Brilliant deduction!"

"But, why? Oh! Is it for a case?"

"No, it's for you. She's your gift."

Sherlock freezes. John suspected that he might just do that, so he waits it out, giving him time to process the news. For a second, he doubts it this is indeed a good idea. Maybe Sherlock does want a dog at all?

Finally, Sherlock speaks, his voice strangely high-pitched. "You bought us… a dog?"

"Technically, she's from the shelter, so we _adopted_ her. I realize now that we could have gone together but I wanted it to be a surprise, but if you want—"

Sherlock gasps, taking the dog in his lap. She's young but trained, she will still grow a bit but she's not too big nor ridiculously small. Perfect for the flat, he thought, and he's glad to see that he's right. She was given up because she had apparently too much energy, which, well… Let's just say he hopes Sherlock won't be bored for a while with her.

"Of course we're not taking her back," Sherlock protests, "she's perfect! A mutt, definitely, but she has some kind of Berger Picard in her, visibly. They're perfect dogs. Energetic, easy maintenance, very clever."

John smiles and sits on the sofa, looking at the dog who's curiously smelling Sherlock's chin, and he instantly knows that they will get along perfectly.

"You'll have to namer her," he says. "And we have an appointment at the vet tomorrow for her vaccines and general check-up."

"Bonny," Sherlock instantly replies.

"Bonny?"

"Yes, after the pirate."

"All right, Bonny it is, then."

 

***

 

They spend maybe another hour playing with Bonny. John had bought a leash, a collar, food and bed for her, but he knows that they will probably have to go to the pet store to get toys and other essentials. He had a dog when he was younger, a german shepherd, but it was quite wild and living outside, and Mum always warned him against petting it. He is not exactly sure how they will manage a dog in 221b, but Mrs. Hudson had agreed to it and he knows they will be fine. It can't be that much complicated, after all.

Finally, Sherlock stands up, already followed by Bonny. "Your gift now, but as I said, it requires going out."

They put their coats on and go downstairs. "We can bring her," Sherlock says, and attaches her to the leash. "Come on!"

They get outside where an empty car is waiting for them. "Did you get us… a car?"

"Of course not, it's a rental. I estimate it will take us two hours and five minutes to get there, so make yourself comfortable."

The drive is quiet, Bonny on the backseat falling asleep after the first half-hour. After a while, John wonders where Sherlock is taking him. They're going south, that much is obvious, but where exactly? Some kind of getaway? Where they can bring a dog? That's unlikely. Maybe it's a crime scene. A very gruesome crime that requires his medical expertise. That would not be bad at all.

They finally stop in front of a small cottage, near the water and far from pretty much everything else but a small village a few kilometers down the road. Sherlock gets out of the car and stretches his back, opening the door for Bonny to get out.

"What do you think?" Sherlock asks once John is out of the car too.

He looks at the cottage: it's quite charming, really, he wouldn't suspect a murder happening there, but again, life is full of surprises.

Sherlock hands him the envelope with his name on it — oh, John had forgotten about that already, and when he opens it, he sees a key inside. It takes a moment for him to add two and two.

"Are you going to open the door or are we going to freeze to death?" Sherlock asks with a smug smile on his face.

"Did you get us a _house_?" How on Earth did Sherlock even pay for that. A house. As a Christmas gift. Is he mad?!

Sherlock catches his expression, of course, and answers to John's hectic train of thoughts. "I did not exactly buy it. It was my Uncle's but now it belongs to my parents, so it will be technically mine sooner or later. Its cost was deducted off my inheritance — well, almost all of it, they did insist on giving us part of it as a wedding gift. We will probably have to make some renovations but it's got everything, really, the sitting room is big enough so you can have a desk for writing, and there is definitely enough place for a second fridge where I'll be able to keep my experiments, and it even has beehives — and now Bonny will have some space to run around too."

John really doesn't know what to say. This is… so much. But also, very very very good.

"I realize that," Sherlock continues, a bit taken aback by this lack of reaction, "you may not… like it, I know it's far from London but I guessed that we could go down here once in a while when we don't have any cases, and maybe when we'll be, you know, too old for detective work, we'll have somewhere to live, if you want us to retire together, that is."

John sighs, and with one hand, pulls on Sherlock's scarf to get his face closer, and kisses him. " _If you want us to retire together_? You mad git, I'm marrying you, and that means I'll have to endure your lack of self-confidence for the rest of our lives, whether it's in London or in bloody Sussex. Of course I _love_ it. It seems amazing, and ti's been in your family, and we're going to grow old in it together, okay?"

"Okay," Sherlock answers, his forehead against John's, who winks and lets go of the scarf.

"So, do I get a private tour of this place or what?"


	26. Cleaning up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things do not go as planned with the newest addition to the family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay!! And also this turned out to be incredibly sappy when it was just supposed to be funny. Argh, they do have their own minds.

They are just returning from Bart's climbing up the stairs two by two with a box containing two fresh left feet for Sherlock's latest experiment on toe prints and a new medical research for John to read, since they spent a good part of the morning over there, after having breakfast in town.

"What the—" John says, opening the door.

Sherlock peaks inside their flat, from above John's shoulder, and can see what the problem is. Apparently, a pillow conveniently exploded in the center of the sitting room, covering every visible surface with feathers.

"Yesterday it was my jumper, and now this!" he says, hand on his forehead. "Ah, there she is," he adds, entering the flat and kneeling in front of the coffee table, which Bonny is hiding under. "Come on, get out from under there, we know you did this."

"You know she can't _understand_ you, John," Sherlock points out, rolling his eyes before putting his coat away. Why does John bother talking to their dog as if it is a human baby?

"She has to learn that she can't go around destroying our stuff!"

"It's only feathers, it's not the end of the world."

"Of course you'd say that, I see why you get along so well," John sighs. "No! Not on the sofa! Bonny, get off the sofa now!"

Sherlock wanders in the kitchen, opening the fridge and going for the can of dog food. Of course, she gets beside him in an instant. "Good dog," he whispers to her, playing with her ears, knowing how John's rules about not getting on the furniture and not destroying house items they can find at the store are ridiculous.

"Are you seriously rewarding her right now? Oh god, you're both the same. Now I have two."

John walks out of the kitchen, one hand on his forehead and the other one on his hip. Sherlock is not sure if he meant it playfully or if he is really upset with them. Maybe he is realizing that getting a dog was a mistake, that he doesn't want that, to share that sort of responsibility with Sherlock. Maybe he hates her. Maybe he doesn't like dogs at all, and he's only known now that they have one. That's why he doesn't want her to touch their stuff and climb on the furniture. What if he asks him to return her to the shelter? Would that mean that John would leave him too, one day, when he would have had enough? His brain automatically jumps to this impossible conclusion, and now he can't shake the thought away.

He tightens his grip around Bonny, rubbing at her sides with his hands. "We're not giving you back," he whispers to her, and when she licks her face it reminds him of Redbeard and that makes everything even worse.

"We're not taking her back," Sherlock says this time louder, for John to catch that. He can't quite hide the fact that his voice is slightly shaking, though.

He hears footsteps in his direction, and buries his face in Bonny's fur.

"Sherlock are you all—"

"We're not taking her back." He repeats it once more, trying to be authoritative in his voice, but it only sounds rasp and childish. God, he hates himself, sometimes.

"Of course we're not taking her back," John scoffs at him as if that was one hell of a leap to take (was it?), "I was just upset at the mess, nothing more, I swear we're not taking her back. It would be like thinking I'd throw you out after burning my jumper or something," he tries to laugh it off, but when he sees Sherlock's expression at his words, John's smile melts away. "Oh god. Sherlock, no! Just— no!"

He sits down on the kitchen floor, just beside Sherlock, and wraps an arm around his shoulders, which he lets him do. The physical contact is reassuring.

"Oh love," John whispers, "you're actually afraid, aren't you?" Sherlock wants to scoff at this, to tell John that he's being ridiculous, that's he's not afraid, but that's _exactly_ what he is. "Listen, whatever your gigantic brain of yours is thinking, don't. I'm not leaving, nor throwing you out, nor giving the dog back. That's simply— not even an option, okay? Yes I might get mad at the dog, from time to time, and at you too, when you do your experiments on my clothes and leave a mess behind, and you might get angry at me too, but that's just what it's like. Adopting a dog is making a promise that we will care for it, whatever happens. And if I remember correctly, and I do, I'm _marrying_ you. That means we're stuck together, in sickness and in health, etc. etc., until we're retired and grey and tired of smelling each other's stinky old feet."

Sherlock huffs a shaky laugh. "Romantically put."

"Well, I was going to say _forever_ , but then you'd have just rolled your eyes. Oh— there it is!"

He had indeed rolled his eyes, before receiving a kiss on his temple. For a moment, for a brief moment in their lives, they're sitting there in silence, on the kitchen floor, with the dog on their lap, thinking about _forever_. 

After a while, they get up and clean up the mess, and when Sherlock returns from the store with a new box of plastic bags, he finds John on he sofa, an arm around Bonny that's half on top of his, both fast asleep.

There are only two thoughts, on the spur of the moment, covered by a smile and then a slightly jealous pout: _What happened to the no-dog-on-furniture rule?_ and _Well now there's no more room for me_.


End file.
